The Red Pyramid: Genderbent Version
by BisexualNerd
Summary: What would The Red Pyramid be like if all of the characters were genderbent? Enjoy following Carla and Samuel Kane as the Journey to stop an Evil Goddess from destroying the world. Along the way, they meet love interests, have epic battles, and provide constant comedy.
1. Chapter 1 (Part 1)

**Author's Note (Important): This work is based directly off of Rick Riordan's book The Red Pyramid so all credit goes to him. I quite literally have taken to copying the book and adding/deleting to suit the story. Minor changes to pronouns, names, and some added character development and depictions to fit with the gender-bent version are of my own design and are original thoughts. The first chapter is going to be split into two parts. Please review and let me know how you guys feel about this.**

1\. A Death at the Needle

WE ONLY HAVE A FEW HOURS, so listen carefully.

If you're hearing this story, you're already in danger. Sam and I might be your only chance. Go to the school. Find the locker. I won't tell you which school or which locker, because if you're the right person, you'll find it. You need to trust me. The combination is 33/32/13. By the time you finish listening, you'll know what those numbers mean, though what they mean isn't as important as the package inside it. Just remember the story we're about to tell you isn't complete yet.

How it ends will depend on you.

The most important thing: when you open the package and find what's inside, don't keep it longer than a week. Sure, it'll be tempting. It will grant you nearly unlimited power, but power comes with a price. If you possess it too long, it will consume you, as it almost consumed me. Learn its secrets quickly. Pass it on. Hide it for the next person, the way Sam and I did for you. Your life is about to get a lot more interesting and even more dangerous.

Okay, Sam is telling me to stop stalling and get on with the story. Fine. I guess it started in London, the night our mother blew up the British Museum and the course of my life.

My name is Carla Kane. I'm fourteen and my home is a suitcase. You think I'm kidding? Ha! You clearly don't know me well. Since I was eight years old, my mother and I have traveled the world for her work. I was born in L.A. but my mom's an archaeologist, so her work takes us all over. Mostly we go to Egypt, since that's her specialty, and is starting to become mine as well. Go into a bookstore, find a book about Egypt, there's a pretty good chance it was written by Dr. Julia Kane. You want to know why Egyptians put mummy organs in jars, or that the pyramids were not build by aliens but actually slaves, or what was the deal with scarab beetles? My mom is your man. Figuratively speaking. Of course, there were other reasons my mother moved us around so much, but I didn't know her secret back then. This wasn't some little secret like her eating my candy at night either. This was a world- shaking secret, but she kept it from us for our own protection.

I didn't go to school. My mother tutored me (you can't really call it 'homeschooling' if you have no permanent home). She taught me whatever she thought was most important and interesting, so I learned almost everything about Egyptian mythology and history, basketball stats for the Lakers, and my mother's favorite musicians. I read a lot, too—pretty much anything I could get my hands on, from mom's history books to fantasy novels. I spent a lot of time sitting around in hotels and airports and dig sites in foreign countries where I didn't know anybody. The only books I wouldn't touch were those trashy romance novels and fashion magazines that they always have in waiting rooms. Not even isolation could make me interested in "5 Tips for Achieving the Perfect Summer Body" or "Does He Like You?: Take This Simple 500 Questioner to Find Out!". Partially because I was never interested in those things, and I couldn't imagine the look on my mother's face if she caught me reading Twilight. Not to mention, excluding the male scorpions and spiders I found in various hotels, my interactions with guys were nonexistent.

My mom was always telling me to put the book down and play some basketball. Have you ever tried to start a rousing game of pick-up basketball in Edfu, Egypt? The combination of the lack of people and the fact that I can only understand basic Ancient Egyptian words make in nearly impossible. Besides, most people don't really beg me for the athletic type.

Anyway, my mother trained me early to keep all my possessions in a single suitcase that fits in an airplane's overhead compartment. Other girls would be carrying bag after bag into the airport, presumably filled to the brim with makeup and at least 6 extra outfits for their one weekend away. But I had no use for makeup or sweatpants even if my mother allowed them. My mom packed the same way as I did, except she was allowed an extra workbag for her archaeology tools.

Rule number one: I am not allowed to look in her workbag. That's a rule I never broke until the day of the explosion.

It happened on Christmas Eve. We were in London for visitation day with my younger brother, Samuel. I used to call him Sam or Sammy before we grew apart, but now it feels too casual. See, Mom's only allowed two days a year with him—one in the winter, one in the summer—because our grandparents hate her with a burning passion. After our dad died, his parents had a huge court custody battle with Mom. After five lawyers, three screaming matches, and a near fatal attack with a spoon (I still don't feel safe with my mother holding one), they won the right to keep Samuel with them in England. He was only six, two years younger than myself, and allegedly they couldn't keep us both. I think it was more of an excuse on their part. After all, Samuel looks more like our father while I remind them of our mother, which may explain why they never seemed to like me.

So Samuel was raised as a British schoolkid, and I traveled around with my mom. We only saw Samuel twice a year, which (for the most part) was fine with me. Looking back on it now, I regret not having more time growing up with him, but at the time, we barely knew each other and all we seemed to do during visitation was fight.

[Shut up, Sam. I'm getting to that part but they need to know the set up otherwise they'll just be confused later.]

So anyway, my mom and I had just flown into Heathrow after a couple of delays. It was a drizzly, cold afternoon, just like it was every time we came to London. The whole taxi ride into the city, my mother was tense and nervous. Now, my mom isn't the largest person, but she is so confident and assured of herself, that she seems to tower over others. You wouldn't think anything could make her nervous. She has dark brown skin like mine, brown eyes, which could turn from loving and soft to piercing in a second, and a short, professional haircut. That afternoon she wore her winter dress coat and her best brown dress and black stockings, the one she used for public lectures and court dates. Usually she exudes such confidence that she dominates any room she walks into, but sometimes—like that afternoon—I saw another side to her that I didn't really understand, at least, not at that point. She kept looking over her shoulder like we were in a game of cat and mouse, and we were the mice.

"Mom?" I asked as we exiting the plane. "Is something wrong?"

"No sign of them yet," she muttered, her eyes frantically glancing around the crowded airport. I didn't know what she could have been looking for in the crowd, but it had her spooked. Then she must've realized she'd spoken aloud, because she looked at me startled.

"Nothing, Carla. Everything's fine." She tried to backtrack and she grabbed our bags and began speed walking towards the exit.

This bothered me because my mom's a terrible liar, even with the simplest of things. She couldn't tell someone that they looked nice in an ugly dress without shifting and stumbling over her words. I always knew when she was hiding something, but I also knew no amount of pestering her would get me the truth. She was probably just trying to protect me, though I didn't know what it could possibly be from. There didn't seem anything innately dangerous about the throngs of people pushing through the airport. Most were women and children, with some men carrying Christmas gifts for their sweethearts mixed in. The only dangerous things were the possibility of a mass panic and the cost of concessions.

Sometimes I wondered if she had some dark secret in her past, maybe some old enemy following her like from those spy movies they always seemed to show inflight. But the idea seemed ridiculous. Mom was no Liam Neeson, she was just an archaeologist who occasionally did guest lectures at colleges. And I doubt an angry college student would have been enough to shake my mother like this.

There was other thing that troubled me: Mom was clutching her workbag tightly in her right hand. Usually when she does that, it means that we're serious in danger. There was one time when gunmen stormed into our hotel in Cairo. I heard the shots coming from the lobby, where my mother was, and panicked, running down to check on her. By the time I got there, she was just calmly zipping up her workbag while three unconscious gunmen hung by their shoelaces from the chandelier, 10 feet in the air, their robes falling over their heads so you could see their briefs. Mom blamed the incident on a freak chandelier malfunction, and the police had no other choice but to accept it after it was discovered that the security tapes were eroded.

Another time, we were caught in the middle of a political riot in Paris. My mom found the nearest parked car, pushed me into the backseat, and told me to get as low as I could and stayed there. I pressed myself close against the floorboards and kept my eyes shut tight with my arms protecting my head. I could hear Mom in the driver's seat, rummaging through her bag, and mumbling something to herself that sounded like Egyptian. At the time, I assumed that it was either a type of prayer or perhaps an ancient, long-forgotten string of curse words. I could hear the crowd roaring outside, the sounds of shattering glass and gunshots so loud they vibrated my teeth. A few minutes later, she told me it was safe to get up. As I looked out the window, I realized that every other car on the block had been overturned and set on fire. Our car had been freshly washed and polished, and even had several twenty-euro notes and a croissant tucked under the windshield wipers. I'd come to respect the bag. It was our good luck charm, almost like prayer beads or a rabbit's foot. But when my mom kept it that close, it meant we were going to need all the good luck we could get.

We drove through the city center, heading toward my grandparents' flat. We passed the golden gates of Buckingham Palace and the big stone column in Trafalgar Square. It would have been a beautiful and interesting view, but after years and years of traveling, all columns, gates, and even cities begin to look the same. I could barely recall every place we had been due to the sheer number of them, but the monotony of the people and design made it even harder. Other kids I meet sometimes would say, "Wow, you're so lucky that you get to travel so much." But it's not like we spend our time sightseeing or relaxing. We've stayed in some pretty sketchy places because we don't have much money, and we would hardly ever stay anywhere longer than a few days. Between the constant trips to the airports and checking into seedy hotels at 3 am almost daily, I began to feel like we were fugitives. When I was younger, I would imagine that we were running from the law, but by the time I reached 12, I would have loved to get to know a city well enough to actually make friends or even know the street names.

Most of the time, what my mom does for work isn't dangerous. In fact, if you're not interested in the subjects she teaches, some of them can seem pretty comical. She does lectures on topics like "Can Egyptian Charms Really Curse You?" and "How to Tell the Difference between a Real and Fake Mummy Finger" and a bunch of other stuff most people wouldn't care about. But like I said, there's that other side to her.

She's always extremely cautious, making sure to check every hotel room before she lets me walk in. She'll race into a museum, heels clicking quickly along the linoleum, see some artifacts, jot down a few notes, and rush out again like she's afraid she'll be caught by the security cameras. One time, when I was much younger, we had raced across the Charles de Gaulle airport to catch a last-minute flight, and Mom didn't relax until the plane was off the ground and 1,000 feet in the air. I had asked her point blank what she was running from, and the look on her face was as if I'd just pulled the pin out of a grenade. For a second I was scared she might actually give me the truth.

Then she said, "Carla, it's nothing." As if "nothing" were the most terrifying thing in the world.

After that, I decided it was better not to ask questions. I never questioned my mother's judgement for fear of what would happen if I did. That is, until that fateful day. Part of me still wishes that I had listened to my mother, because if I did, it would have made everything simpler.

My grandparents, the Fausts, live in a housing development near Canary Wharf, right on the banks of the River Thames. The taxi let us off at the curb, and my mom asked the driver to wait so we wouldn't have to try to hail another cab in the semi-isolated development.

We were halfway up the walkway when Mom stopped dead in her tracts. She whipped around, hair flying in her face, and looked across the street behind us.

"What?" I asked.

Then I saw the woman in the trench coat. She was across the street, leaning against a big dead tree. She had an hourglass figure, with smooth skin the color of roasted coffee beans. Her coat and black pinstriped pantsuit looked expensive. She had cornrows and wore a black fedora pulled down low over her dark round glasses. She looked like a mix between a wealthy lawyer and a jazz musician, the kind my mom would always drag me to see in concert.

Even though I couldn't see her eyes behind the glasses, I had the distinct impression she was watching us. She might've been an old friend or colleague of Mom's. No matter where we went, Mom was always running into people she knew. But it did seem strange that she was waiting here, outside my grandparents'. And she didn't look happy. I began to worry that my first impression was right, and the court was back to say we couldn't visit or yell at us for being late. The last thing my mom needed was to deal with more stress today.

"Carla," my mom said, "go on ahead." She wasn't looking at me, instead making constant eye contract with the woman across the street. She stared at her with such focus that she must have thought if she took her eyes of the woman for a second, she would disappear.

"But—" I tried to interject, worriedly looking between my mother and the strange woman. I wouldn't be much help if it came to a fight, but I didn't want to abandon my mother.

"Go get your brother. I'll meet you both back at the taxi."

She crossed the street toward the lady in the trench coat, leaving me with two choices: follow my mom, directly disobeying her orders, and see what was going on, or to do what I was told. After a moment's hesitation, I decided on the slightly less dangerous path. I went to retrieve my brother.

Before I could even knock, Samuel opened the door.

"Late as usual," he said with a roll of his eyes.

He was holding his cat, Cupcake, who'd been a "going away" present from Mom six years before. Cupcake never seemed to get older or bigger, despite the fact that he was almost 10 years old. He had fuzzy yellow-and-black fur like a miniature leopard, alert yellow eyes, and pointy ears that were too tall for his head. A silver Egyptian pendant dangled from his collar. He looked nothing like a cupcake, but Samuel had been about 2 when he named him, so I guess you have to cut him some slack. Not that I would argue with anyone who made fun of him for his pastry named cat.

Samuel hadn't changed much either since last summer, as if England existed in some parallel dimension where time never went forward, and brothers stayed just as annoying.

[He's already glaring at me as I record this, so I'd better be careful how I describe him, or I'm going to get punched.]

You would never guess he's my biological brother. First of all, he'd been living in England so long, he has a heavy British accent. Secondly, he takes after our dad, who was white, so Samuel's skin is much lighter than mine. He has straight caramel-colored hair that draped onto his forehead, not exactly blond or brown, which he usually dyes with streaks of bright colors. That day it had red streaks along the tips, making it look like he had suffered from a head injury. His eyes are the exact same startling shade of blue that our Dad's were. He's only just turned twelve, but after he hit a growth spurt last year, he's exactly as tall as me, which is incredibly annoying. He was chewing gum as usual, dressed for his family day out with Mom and I in ripped jeans, a leather jacket, and combat boots, like he was going to a concert and was hoping to stomp on some peoples heads. He had headphones dangling around his neck just in case we bored him (as we usually seemed to do).

[Okay, so he didn't hit me, so I guess I did an okay job of describing him.]

"Our plane was late," I told him, even though I realized that he didn't care why we were late. It was always the same reasons anyway. A late plane, a delayed take off, a sudden storm: Something seemed to happen every time we came to visit Samuel. He popped a bubble, rubbed Cupcake's head, and tossed the cat inside, who screeched and ran away into the house.

"Gramp, going out!" He yelled as he stepped outside of the door.

From somewhere in the house, Grandpa Faust said something I couldn't make out, though it sounded something like "Don't let them in!" As I said, they really don't like us.

Samuel closed the door and regarded me as if I were a dead mouse his cat had just dragged in and left on his lap. "So… you're back."

"Yep."

"Ok." He sighed, like my presence was the bane of his existence. "Let's get it over with."

And that was it. No "Hi, how you been the last six months? So glad to see you! How's life? Got a boyfriend or girlfriend yet?" Nothing. But ultimately, that was okay with me. When you only see each other twice a year, it's like you're distant cousins who visit on Thanksgiving rather than siblings. We had absolutely nothing in common except our parents. I love books and logic. He likes rock music and sarcasm. Any conversation between us ended in a fight about something the other did and our mother having to break us up. So it was a relatively good that we only saw each other twice a year.

We trudged down the steps towards the taxi. I noticed how he smelled like a combination of old people and minty bubble gum (which is an odd mix to say the least) when he stopped so abruptly, I nearly ran into him.

"Who's that?" he asked.

I'd nearly forgotten about the mysterious woman in the trench coat from before. She and my mom were still standing across the street next to a big tree. It looked like they were in the middle of an intense argument, with each motioning agitatedly with their hands and the sound of raised voices carrying across the street.

"Dunno," I admitted. "She was there when we pulled up."

"She looks kinda familiar." Samuel said frowning and squinting, as if he was trying to summon memories by getting a blurrier look at the woman. "Come on."

 **Let me know what you think about this concept and the writing. I wanted to keep as much as Rick Riordan's signature style in this as I could while still giving it the gender-bent spin. Review and let me know!**


	2. Chapter 1 (Part 2)

Chapter 1 Part 2

 **Author's Note: Thank you for all the views and support. A special thank you goes out to perabethIshipIt and SimbaLuv4323. Just so you guys know, I kept the name Amos the same because, while more commonly used for boys, it is also a girl's name. I didn't want to white wash the name either by replacing it with something like Annie, so it'll stay Amos. Feel free to make any spelling/grammar mistakes, I'll try to correct them ASAP.**

 **Accalia Sage: With regard to switching between present and past tense, I'm using Riordan's text as a basis, and because he switches between present and past tense, I'm going to keep it that way. While it shouldn't be used in professional writing, it can help to induce a more casual feel, which fits when your story is supposed to be teenagers recording. I am aware that this is not technically the right thing to do, so thank you for your comment**

"Mom wants us to wait in the cab," I said, even though I knew it was no use. He never listened to me about anything. Samuel was already on the move. Instead of going straight across the street, like I thought he would, he dashed up the sidewalk for half a block, ducking behind parked cars, then crossed to the opposite side and crouched under a low stone wall. What was this? Some crappy stealth level of a video game?! He started sneaking toward our mother, crouching down low like a lion stalking it pray. I didn't have much choice but to follow his example, even though it made me feel kind incredibly stupid.

"Six years in England," I muttered, "and he thinks he's freaking James Bond." Samuel swatted me in the head without looking even back and kept creeping forward. After a couple more steps, we were right behind the big dead tree. I could hear my mother on the other side, saying, "…have to, Amos. You know it's the right thing."

"No," said the other woman, who must've been Amos. Her voice was low for a female and seemed very insistent.

Her accent was American, with a tinge of some other foreign dialect mixed in. "If I don't stop you, Julia, they will. The Per Ankh is shadowing you. You know they have been since the incident"

Samuel turned to me and mouthed the words "Per what?"

I shook my head, just as confused. "Let's get out of here," I whispered back. We'd be sure to be spotted any minute and get in serious trouble if we stayed any longer. Samuel, as per usual, ignored me.

"They don't know my plan," my mother was saying. "And by the time they figure it out—"

"What about the children?" Amos asked. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. They had to have been talking about Samuel and I. And judging by Amos' tone, what could happen to us was not good.

"I've already made arrangements to protect them," my mom said. "Besides, if I don't do this, we're all going to be in danger. Back off! They are my children and this is my choice. You need to stay out of it."

"I can't, Julia."

"Then it's a duel you want?" Mom's tone turned deadly serious. "You never could beat me, Amos." I hadn't heard my mother threaten violence on anyone since the Great Spatula Incident. Her eyes were like lasers, and she was tensed and reaching towards her bag. Not a good sign.

Samuel seemed to realize this too, and he popped up and shouted, "Mom!"

She looked surprised when he hug-tackled her, nearly knocking her over, but not nearly as surprised as the other woman, Amos. She stumbled back so quickly that she tripped over her own trench coat. She'd taken off her glasses, revealing large, shocked eyes that narrowed slightly at the sight of me. I couldn't help thinking that Samuel was right. She did look familiar—like person from a dream you had years ago.

"I—I must be going," she said. She straightened her fedora and strutted down the road.

Our mom watched her go, a mix of relief and some sadness mixed on her face. She kept one arm protectively around Samuel, clean cut nails gripping his shoulder tightly, with the other inside the work- bag slung over her shoulder. Finally, when Amos disappeared around the corner, Mom relaxed. She took her hand out of the bag and smiled at Samuel.

"Hello, dear." She said, trying to wrap him in a hug.

Samuel pushed away from her and crossed his arms, fixing a fierce glare upon our mother. "Oh, now it's dear, is it? You're late. Visitation Day's nearly over and I've barely seen you! And what was that conversation about? Who's Amos, and what's the Per Ankh?" Mom stiffened at this mention, glancing at me like she was wondering how to smooth over what we had just heard.

"It's nothing," she lied, trying to sound upbeat, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I have a wonderful evening planned. Who'd like a private tour of the British Museum?" With this, she took off towards the taxi and climbing in, giving us no choice but to follow. Samuel slumped in the back of the taxi between Mom and me.

"I can't believe it," he grumbled. "One evening together, and you're more focused on your stupid research than your kids."

Mom tried for a smile, but I could see the hurt in her eyes. "Honey, it'll be fun. The curator of the Egyptian collection has personally invited—"

"Oh! Bloody huge surprise." Samuel flipped his head back, sending the red tipped strands flying off of his forehead and out of his eyes. "Christmas Eve, and we're going to see some moldy old relics from Egypt. Do you ever think about anything else?"

Mom didn't get mad. She never gets mad at Samuel or I, no matter what we do. It sounds stereotypical, but she would only look disappointed or sad, but never outright mad at us. She just stared out the window at the darkening sky and the quickly falling rain that streaked down the class, each drop racing the other.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I do."

Whenever Mom got quiet like that and stared off into nowhere, I knew that she was thinking about our dad. Over the last few months, it had been happening a lot. I'd walk into our hotel room and find her with her wallet in his hands, Dad's picture smiling up at her from the top picture in the album—his hair nearly hidden under a protective hat, his blue eyes shockingly bright against the backdrop of the desert. Or we'd be at some dig site. I'd see Mom staring out at the horizon, and I'd know he was remembering the time that they first met. It was a truly romantic story. Two young scientists in the Valley of the Kings, on a dig to discover a lost tomb, fall in love at first sight. Mom was an Egyptologist, there in the hopes of discovering unseen hieroglyphs. Dad was an anthropologist looking for ancient DNA. She'd told me the story a thousand times, though I never got sick of it. I had so few memories of my dad any inside into his relationship with Mom was like finding gold.

Our taxi snaked its way along the banks of the Thames. As we were just passing Waterloo Bridge, my mom tensed again. "Driver," she said. "Stop here a moment." The cabbie pulled over on to a memorial along the Victoria Embankment.

"What is it, Mom?" I asked.

She climbed out of the cab as if she hadn't even heard me. By the time Samuel and I joined her on the rain-splattered sidewalk, she was staring up at Cleopatra's Needle.

Just in case you've never seen it, the Needle is a beautifully simple monument, but nothing most people would stop to gawk at. It's shaped like an obelisk, not a needle, and, despite the name, it doesn't have anything to do with Cleopatra. I guess the British just thought the name sounded cool when they brought it to London, and no one bothered to stop them. It's about seventy feet tall, which was incredibly impressive in Ancient Egyptian times, when most building were small houses made of mud and straw. But on the Thames, surrounded by tall, shiny buildings, it looks small and sad. You could drive right by it and not even realize you'd just passed something that was a thousand years older than the city of London.

"God." Samuel cursed, walking around in a frustrated circle. "Do we really have to stop for every monument? Or are you just trying to stall for time?"

My mom continued staring at the top of the obelisk. She kept her expression neutral, but her eyes looked equal parts tired and sad, with none of their usual luster. "I had to see it again," she murmured. "Where it all happened..."

A freezing wind blew off the river, the icy breeze cutting through my coat, making all of my arm hairs raise. I wanted desperately to get back in the cab, but my mom was beginning to seriously worry me. I'd never seen her so distracted.

"What, Mom?" I asked, shaking her arm frantically. "What happened here?"

"The last time I saw him."

Samuel stopped in his tracts, turning towards Mom and I, shooting us a confused look. "Hang on. Do you mean Dad?"

Mom ruffled Samuel's hair, and he was so surprised, he didn't even push her away. I felt like the rain had frozen me solid, trapping me in a situation I had no idea how to handle. Dad's death had always been a forbidden subject. I knew that he'd died in an accident in London. I knew my grandparents blamed my mother. But no one would ever tell us the details as far as how or exactly where it happened. I'd given up asking my mom, partly because it made her so sad, but mostly because she absolutely refused to tell me anything. "When you're older" was the only thing she would say, which was one of the most frustrating responses ever. Parents usually say it to their children in an effort to protect them, but most of the time it just makes them imagine the worst possible situation.

"Are you telling us he died here?" I asked. "At Cleopatra's Needle? What happened?"

She lowered her head.

"Mum!" Samuel protested. "I walk past this every day, and you mean to say—all this time—and I didn't

even know?!"

"Do you still have your cat?" Mom asked her, seemingly out of nowhere. Samuel's confusion showed on his face, as did his mounting annoyance.

"Of course I've still got the cat!" he said. "What the hell does the cat have to do with anything?"

"And your amulet?"

Samuel's hand flew to his neck. When we were little, right before Samuel was taken to live with our grandparents, Mom had given us both Egyptian amulets. Mine was an Eye of Horus, which was a popular protection symbol in Ancient Egypt. In fact, the modern pharmacist's symbol is a simplified version of the Eye of Horus, because medicine is supposed to protect you. My amulet was the only piece of jewelry I wore daily, but I figured Samuel would've lost his or thrown it away after a few years.

To my surprise, he nodded. "'Course I have it, Mum, but don't change the subject. Gramp's always going on and on about how you caused Dad's death. That's not true, is it?"

We waited, staring at our mother expectantly. For once, Sadie and I weren't fighting: We wanted exactly the same thing—the truth.

"The night your father died," my mother started, "here at the Needle—"

Suddenly a flash illuminated the embankment. I turned, half blind, my ears ringing, and just for a moment I glimpsed two figures: a tall pale woman with long hair, wearing cream-colored robes, and a coppery-skinned boy in dark blue robes and a headband. They were the types of clothes I always saw in Egypt. They were just standing there side by side, barely twenty feet away, watching us. Then the light faded. The figures melted into a fuzzy afterimage, like the silhouette you see of a firework after it explodes. Once my eyes readjusted to the darkness, they were gone.

"Um..." Samuel said nervously. "Did either of you just see that?"

"Get in the cab," my mom ordered, pushing us toward the curb. Her entire demeanor changed, and suddenly she was back to the confident leader I knew.

"We're out of time. This isn't the place to talk," she said, glancing behind us. She'd promised the cabbie an extra 15 pounds if he got us to the museum in under five minutes, and the cabbie was doing his best, swerving through lanes and almost certainly causing traffic accidents behind us.

"Mom," I tried, "those people at the river—"

"And the other lady, Amos," Samuel said. "Are they Egyptian police or something?"

"Look, both of you," Mom said, "I'm going to need your help tonight. I know it's hard, but you have to be patient. I'll explain everything, I promise, after we get to the museum. I'm going to make everything right again. We'll all be a family again and everything will be back to how it should be."

"What do you mean?" Samuel insisted. "Make what right?"

Mom's expression was more than sad. She looked irreconcilable and almost guilty. With a chill, I thought about what Samuel had said: about our grandparents blaming her for Dad's death. What if it was true? I had spent my whole life with my mom, and I don't know if I could handle learning that everything I knew about her had been a lie. Most of me knew that there was no way my mom would have killed my dad, she loved him just as much as she loves Samuel and I. But that 1% of doubt was beginning to eat me alive.

The cabbie swerved onto Great Russell Street and screeched to a halt in front of the museum's main gates.

"Just follow my lead," Mom told us. "When we meet the curator, act normal." I was thinking that Samuel never acted normal, but I decided not to say anything. We must have been in an extreme situation if we were being told to 'act normal', as if nothing strange were happening. Maybe Samuel's theory about the Egyptian police has some merit.

We climbed out of the cab. I got our luggage while Mom paid the driver with a big wad of cash. Then she did something even more strange. She threw a handful of small objects into the backseat—they looked like stones or buttons, but it was too dark for me to be sure. "Keep driving," she told the cabbie. "Take us to Chelsea."

That direction made no sense since we were already out of the cab, but the driver seemed to understand, speeding off. I glanced at Mom, then back at the cab before it turned the corner and disappeared in the dark. Through the darkness, I caught a weird glimpse of three passengers in the backseat: a woman and two kids.

I blinked. There was no way the cab could've picked up another fare so fast. "Mom—"

"London cabs don't stay empty very long," she said matter-of-factly. "Come along, children."

She marched off through the wrought iron gates, walking at such as pace it could have been confused for running. For a second, Samuel and I hesitated.

"Carla, what is going on?"

I shook my head. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Well, stay out here in the cold if you want, but I'm not leaving without an explanation." He turned and chased after our mom. Looking back on it, I should've run. I should've dragged Samuel out of there and gotten as far away as possible. In doing so I would have saved my brother and I tons of grievances and strife. Instead, I followed him through the gates.

 **Thank you so much for all of your reviews. I know that my grammar is not the best, and while I'm trying to work on it, uploading at a fast pace combined with being incredibly busy at school means I don't have much time. Let me know if you would rather me focus on really good quality or continue with a fast turn out rate of every day or every other day. Feel free to review or PM me with any comments/questions.**

 **Thank you again, and I hope you enjoyed it!**

 **Cat**


	3. Chapter 2 (Part 1)

**Author's Note: Hey guys. Sorry for the slow update speed. It's the holiday weekend and I'm swamped with volunteering at different places as well as visiting with family. I know this isn't long, but I wanted to get at least something up. Will post again ASAP, but I doubt the updates will be daily, unless you want very short chapters. Happy belated thanksgiving to all those who celebrate and thank you all for being understanding.**

2\. An Explosion for Christmas

I'd been to the British Museum several times before. In fact, I've been in more museums than I like to admit. I tied to count how many once and the sheer number makes me sound like a total geek.

[That's Samuel in the background, telling me that I am a total geek. Thanks, Bro. Love you too!]

Anyway, the museum was closed and completely dark, which made sense given the fact at it was nearing 8 p.m., but the curator and two security guards were waiting eagerly for us on the top of the steps.

"Dr. Kane!" The curator shouted, running down the steps towards the cab. Her hair looked greasy, like a bad adaptation of a mullet, and she was wearing a cheap pantsuit. I tried not to be too judgmental of people I didn't know, but I'd seen mummies with more hair and better teeth. She shook my mom's hand vigorously, like she was meeting a rock star. "Your last paper on Akhenaton—brilliant! I don't know how you translated those documents!"

"Ak- henna- who?" Samuel muttered to me.

"Akhenaton," I explained. "Egyptian king, cult leader. The one that worshipped Aton, the giant sun orb. You know."

"Didn't know," Samuel said. "Don't care. But thanks."

Mom expressed her gratitude to the curator for hosting us on a holiday, after hours and all. Then she put her hand on my shoulder. "Dr. Martin, I'd like you to meet Carla and Samuel."

"Ah! Your daughter, obviously, and—" The curator looked hesitantly towards Samuel. "And this young man?"

"My son," Mom said firmly, giving Samuel a smile.

Dr. Martin's stare went temporarily blank, the implications of what she just said dawning on her. Doesn't matter how open-minded or polite people think they are, there's always that moment of confusion that flashes across their faces when they realize Samuel is part of our family. I hate it, but over the years I've come to expect it. To be honest, when I was younger, it was one of the reasons I didn't like coming to visit him. The stares and hushed whispers started to fade into the background over the years, but they still caused a moment of agitation.

The curator regained her smile. "Yes, yes, of course. Right this way, Dr. Kane. We're very honored!" The security guards locked the doors behind us. They took the luggage Mom and I had with us, but when one of them reached for Mom's workbag, she interjected.

"Ah, no," Mom said with a tight smile, her hand gripping the handle tighter. "I'll keep this one."

The guards stayed in the foyer as we followed the curator into the Great Court. It was ominous at night, long shadows from display cases towering over us like demonic figures. Dim light from the glass-domed ceiling cast crosshatched shadows across the walls like a giant spider web. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the cold white marble floor.

"So," Mom said, "the stone would be…?"

"Yes!" the curator exclaimed. "Though I can't imagine what new information you could glean from it. It's been studied to near death since it's discovery in 1799—our most famous artifact by far."

"Of course," Mom said. "But you may be surprised."

"What's she on about now?" Samuel whispered to me.

I didn't answer him. I had a sneaking suspicion what stone they were talking about, but I couldn't figure out why Mom would drag us out on Christmas Eve to see it and god forbid I give Samuel the wrong answer. I wondered what she'd been about to tell us at Cleopatra's Needle—something about our father and what happened the night he died. It was really beginning to concern me that my mom was glancing around as if she expected those strange people we'd seen at the Needle to pop up again? We were locked in a museum surrounded by guards and some of the most high-tech security. Nobody could bother us in here… At least I hoped not.

We turned left into the Egyptian wing, one of the larger exhibits on display. The walls were lined with massive statues of the pharaohs and gods, some covered in gold, others sculpted out of limestone. But my mom passed them all without a glance and went straight for the main attraction, placed on a pedestal in the middle of the room.

"Beautiful," my mother murmured. "And it's not a replica?"

"No, no," the curator promised, her head bouncing like a bubblehead. "We don't always keep the actual stone on display, but for you I made sure that this is quite real."

We were staring at a slab of dark gray rock about three feet tall and two feet wide. It sat on a pedestal, encased in a large glass box. The flat surface of the stone was chiseled with three distinct bands of writing. The top part was written in Ancient Egyptian picture writing: hieroglyphics. I had seen these many times, but I was still hazy about what each meant. The middle section was more foreign to me, and I had to rack my brain to remember what my dad called it: Demotic, a kind of writing from the period when the Greeks controlled Egypt and a lot of Greek words got mixed into Egyptian. The last lines were in pure Ancient Greek.

"The Rosetta Stone," I said.

"Isn't that the computer program they advertise on the telly?" Samuel asked.

I wanted to tell him how stupid he was, but the curator cut me off with a condescending, nervous laugh. "Young man, the Rosetta Stone was the key to deciphering hieroglyphics! It was discovered by Napoleon's army in 1799 and—"

"Oh, right," Samuel interjected, forcing a smile. "I remember now."

I knew he was just saying that to shut her up, but my mom wasn't as easy to fool, and seemed keen on educating him about the history of the stone.

"Samuel," she said, "until this stone was discovered, regular mortals...er, I mean, no one had been able to read hieroglyphics for centuries. The written language of Egypt had been completely forgotten. Then an Englishman named Thomas Young proved that the Rosetta Stone's three languages all conveyed the same message. A Frenchman named Champollion took up the work and cracked the code of hieroglyphics."

Samuel chewed her gum, unimpressed with the lack of action or drama in the story. "What's it say, then?"

Mom shook her head. "Nothing very important. It's basically a thank-you letter from some priests to King Ptolemy V. When it was first carved, the stone was no big deal. But over the centuries...over the centuries it has become an incredibly powerful symbol. It's perhaps the most important connection between Ancient Egypt and the modern world, that managed to span the gap between time and reignite a dead language. I was a fool not to realize its potential sooner."

She'd lost me, and apparently the curator too.

"Dr. Kane?" she asked. "Are you quite all right?"

Mom breathed deeply. "My apologies, Dr. Martin. I was just...thinking aloud. If I could have the glass removed? And if you could bring me the papers I asked for from your archives?"

Dr. Martin nodded. She typed a near 16 digit code into a small remote control, and the front of the glass box clicked open.

"It will take a few minutes to me retrieve the notes because they're located in my office," Dr. Martin said. "For anyone else, I would hesitate to grant unguarded access to the stone, as you've requested. I trust you'll all be careful." He glanced at us kids like we were troublemakers.

"We'll be careful," Mom promised.

As soon as Dr. Martin's steps receded, Mom turned to us with a frantic look in her eyes. "Children, this is very important. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you have to stay out of this room."

She slipped her workbag off her shoulder and unzipped it just enough to pull out a heavy bike chain and padlock. "Follow Dr. Martin. You'll find her office at the end of the Great Court on the left. There's only one entrance. Once she's inside, be quick and wrap this around the door handles, then lock it tight. We need to delay her for as long as possible."

"You want us to lock her in?" Samuel asked, suddenly interested. "Brilliant!"

"Mom," I exclaimed, "what's going on?! You've been acting weird all night and now you want us to lock the curator in her office? Are you going to steal something?"

"We don't have time for explanations," she said. "This will be our only chance. They're coming."

"Who's coming?" Samuel asked.

She took Samuel and I by the shoulders, pulling us into a hug. "Sweethearts, I love you. And I'm sorry...I'm sorry for many things, but there's no time now. If this works, I promise I'll make everything better for all of us. Samuel, you're my brave young man. Take care of your sister for me. Carla, I know that I'm acting strange, but you have to trust me. Remember, lock up Dr. Martin. Then stay out of this room!"

With that, she gave us a push and we started off down the hallway. I trusted my mom enough to follow her instructions, but my heart never beat as fast as it did, running towards the curator's door.

 **Next chapter will show how the Kane siblings managed to get the curator locked in her room, and the reveal of what Dr. Julia Kane was up to with the Rosetta Stone. Thank you all, please review with any suggestions for other stories or comments.**

 **Cat**


	4. Chapter 2 (Part 2)

We crept down the hallway, trying to keep pace with the curator without giving away our location. My brain was in overdrive thinking of all the things that could go wrong. What if she turned around? What if a guard came out from one of the many doors and spotted us? And why had Mom even sent us on this mission?

Samuel, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life. He had taken the lead, and was slinking along the wall. His black clothes helped him blend in to the shadows, though the glint of the bike chain from the low lights gave him away.

My thoughts were cut short when the curator ducked into her office. The double doors swung shut behind her with a heavy thud, masking the sound of Samuel's footsteps as he rushed forward. He began wrapping the door handles with the chain, humming some tune as he did. I placed my ear against the door and strained to hear what the curator was doing inside, for fear that in an instant, should would try to come out. I heard nothing but the shuffling of papers and her talking excitedly to herself. Something along the lines of what a pleasure it was to meet my mother and how grateful she was to have 'the honorable Dr. Kane'. Whoops. Might have blackened that opinion by the end of today.

I head a click and glanced at Samuel, who was smiling triumphantly at me. The chain was tightly attached by a bike lock to both of the handles. I felt immensely guilty for locking the woman in her office, but I didn't have it in me to disobey a direct order from my mother. I began walking back down the hallway. I did not want to be there when she realized she was locked in.

"What's that?" Samuel suddenly asked. I looked back the wing we'd come from and saw bright blue light streaming from the Egyptian gallery. It was as if our mom had installed a giant glowing aquarium or covered the walls in bioluminescent bacteria.

Samuel locked eyes with me, fear and confusion flickering across his face. "Honestly, do you have any idea what she's up to?"

"None," I said. "But she's been acting really strange lately. Thinking a lot about Dad. She keeps his picture..."

I didn't want to say more. Thinking about Dad, and the amount of sadness in my mother's eye's talking about him, made it feel like there was a large chunk of taffy in my throat. Fortunately, Samuel nodded like he understood. As I would come to find out much later, Samuel knew just as much about that sadness as I did.

"What's in her workbag?" he asked.

"I don't know. The one rule we had was that I never looked in it."

Samuel scoffed and raised an eyebrow. "And you never did? God, that is so like you, Carla. You're worse than a two year old when it comes to knowing when to follow instructions."

I wanted to defend myself, but just then a tremor shook the floor, shaking the glass panes of the displays next to us.

Startled, Samuel gripped my arm. "And speaking of when to follow instructions. You're not just going to listen to Mom and stay put, will you? She could be in trouble?"

That order had sounded pretty good to me, until Samuel pointed out that Mom might be in trouble. Though I didn't know what kind of trouble she could have gotten herself into inside a nearly abandoned museum. Samuel sprinted off down the hall, leaving me almost no choice. I'd be damned if I let both my mother and my younger brother face something without me, even if the latter was incredibly aggravating. I double checked the lock on the door before sprinting after Samuel.

 **Author's Note: I am so, so sorry for how late and short this chapter is. Everything in my life right now has been spiraling out of control with hospital visits, projects, and essays galore! Everything's ok, I'm just really busy and in the time that I do have, it's very hard for me to relax enough to write something you all will (hopefully) enjoy. So please be patient with me over this period. Thank you so much!**

 **Cat**


	5. Chapter 2 (Part 3)

When we reached the entrance of the Egyptian gallery, we stopped dead in our tracks. Our mother stood in front of the Rosetta Stone with her back to us. A blue circle glowed on the floor around her, radiating light and a feeling of power. I couldn't explain it at the time, but I felt that the circle was much more than some neon tubing or glow paint.

My mom had thrown off her overcoat. Her workbag lay open at her feet, revealing a wooden box about two feet long, painted with Egyptian images. There were several other items in the bag as well, including some string and what looked like clay or putty.

"What's she holding?" Samuel whispered to me. "Is that a boomerang?"

Sure enough, when Mom raised her hand, she was brandishing a curved white stick, moving it from side to side like a conductor before lowering it again. It did look like a boomerang, cured and angled with rounded ends. She raised it again, but instead of throwing the stick, she touched it to the Rosetta Stone.

I heard Samuel gasp and saw him lean in closer. Then I realized why. Mom was writing on the stone! Wherever the boomerang made contact, glowing blue lines appeared on the granite. Hieroglyphs. It made no sense. How could she write glowing words with a stick on a piece of stone? And why would she destroy such a valuable artifact with glowing writing? But the image was bright and clear: ram's horns above a box and an X.

"Open," Samuel murmured. I stared at him, because it sounded like he had just translated the word, but that was impossible. I'd been studying with Mom for years, and even I could read only a few hieroglyphs. There were seemingly hundreds of thousands of possible combinations, which changed and evolved through time. I could never imagine Samuel having the dedication to memorize all of those symbols.

Mom raised her arms again, chanting "Wo-seer, i-ei." Two more hieroglyphic symbols burned blue against the surface of the Rosetta Stone. As stunned as I was, I recognized the first symbol. It was the name of the Egyptian god of the dead.

"Wo-seer," I whispered. I'd never heard it pronounced that way, but I knew what it meant. "Osiris."

"Osiris, come," Samuel said, as if in a trance. Then his eyes widened. "No!" he shouted. "Mom, no!"

Our mother jumped and turned in surprise. She started to say, "Children—" but it was too late.

 **Author's Note: Thank you for being patient with me through this rough time. Let me know what you guys think, and please give me some other ideas for more original works. Comment and Review! I will try my best to make updates more regular, but they'll most likely be short. Thank you again.**

 **Cat**


	6. Chapter 2 (Part 4)

**Thank you guys for all the reviews and patience during the holiday season.**

 **merendinoemiliano: I read your comment and thank you so much for the review! I love the genderbent versions myself and feel that there is a total lack of them. As for which god/goddess Julia will merge with, I'm going to keep it with the original versions, only changing their genders as I have done with the rest of the characters. I agree with your point, but I have a reason for this. There are certain aspects of Mythology which dictate the gods being able to change their appearance and even gender at will. So, I would like to keep the names the same (maybe add nicknames... ex: Anubis will probably be called Annie by Samuel) to avoid confusion, but go with the belief that they can change gender at will. I am not against same sex couples at all (I'm bisexual XD) I just really want to test how a change in gender changes the dynamic of the relationship (specifically for Sanubis. The fact that Anubis would be a girl and raised in with very traditional believes would change a lot about her personality. After all, women were supposed to be much more meek and silent than men ). Sorry about the long reply. Thank you so much for the review and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

The ground rumbled, shaking the artifacts in their glass cases. The blue light turned to searing white, and the Rosetta Stone exploded, fragments blasting out in all directions, and I closed my eyes to avoid the shrapnel. The force rippled out with the strength of a bomb, sending Samuel and I flying back into the wall. My head slammed against the stone, my teeth slamming together, and I felt immense pain before everything went black.

When I regained consciousness, the first thing I heard was laughter—horrible, gleeful laughter mixed with the deafening blare of the museum's security alarms. I felt like I'd just been run over by a tractor, and my lip was bleeding where my teeth had gone through it. I sat up, dazed, and spit a jagged piece of the Rosetta Stone out of my mouth. Opening my eyes slowing, I looked around at the destroyed gallery which doubled and swimming. Waves of fire rippled in pools along the floor. Giant statues had toppled. Sarcophagi had been knocked off their pedestals. Pieces of the Rosetta Stone had exploded outward with such force that they'd embedded themselves in the columns, the walls, the other exhibits.

Worriedly, I looked around for Samuel, as was relived to find him next to me. He was knocked unconscious but looked relatively unharmed. I shook her shoulder, and he groaned, holding his head. I quickly looked for any major damage, but only found a small bump in the back of his head. He wasn't bleeding, and without a flashlight I had no way of checking him for a concussion, so I deemed his condition acceptable overall and turned to look at our surroundings.

In front of us, where the Rosetta Stone had been, stood a smoking, sheared-off pedestal. The floor was blackened in a starburst pattern, except for the glowing blue circle around our mother.

She was facing our direction, but she didn't appear to be looking at us. A bloody cut ran across her scalp. She gripped the boomerang tightly, her shoulders tensed and jaw set, ready for a fight.

I didn't understand what she was looking at. Then the horrible laughter echoed around the room again, and I realized it was coming from right in front of me. Something stood between our mother and us. At first, I could barely make the figure out—it shifted back and forth like a heat induced mirage. But as I concentrated, it took on a vague form—the fiery outline of a woman. She was taller than Mom, and her laugh cut through me like a chainsaw.

"Well done," she said. "Well done indeed, Julia."

"You were not summoned!" My mother's voice trembled. She held up the boomerang, but the fiery woman flicked one finger, and the stick flew from Mom's hand, hitting the wall and shattering into hundreds of pieces.

"I am never summoned, Julia," the woman purred. "After all, who would want to summon violence and and disorder. But when you open a door, you must be prepared for unexpected guests to walk through."

"Back to the Duat!" my mother roared. "I have the power of the Great Queen!"

"Oh, scary," the fiery woman said with amusement. "And even if you knew how to use that power, which you do not, she was never my match. I am the strongest, the most cunning, the most powerful of all. Now you will share her fate."

I couldn't make sense of anything, but I knew that my mother was in troubled, and I had to help save her from a living campfire. I tried to pick up the nearest chunk of stone, but I was so terrified my fingers felt frozen and numb. It dropped with a thud, breaking apart into even more pieces. My hands were useless.

Mom shot me a silent look of warning: Get out. I realized she was intentionally keeping the fiery woman's back to us, hoping Samuel and I would escape unnoticed. I decided to trust in her, turning to Samuel. He was still groggy, half sitting up with his head in his hands. I managed to drag him behind a column, into the shadows. When he started to protest, I clamped my hand over his mouth. That woke him up, and he looked around, eyes widening.

Alarms blared. Fire circled around the doorways of the gallery. The guards had to be on their way, but I wasn't sure if that was a good thing for us. After all, the curator would eventually get free and could testify against us. Not to mention the security footage that would no doubt incriminate all of us heavily.

Mom crouched to the floor, keeping her eyes on her enemy, and opened her painted wooden box. She brought out a small, flat rod like a ruler. Muttering something under her breath, the rod elongated into a wooden staff nearly as tall as she was.

Samuel made a squeaking sound and stared at me for an explanation, or at least a confirmation of the weirdness. I couldn't believe my eyes either, but things only got weirder.

Mom threw her staff at the fiery woman's feet, and it changed into an enormous serpent—ten feet long and as big around as I was—with coppery scales and glowing red eyes. It lunged at the fiery woman, who effortlessly grabbed the serpent by its neck. The woman's hand burst into white-hot flames, and the snake burned to ashes.

"An old trick, Julia," the fiery woman chided. "I had hoped the years of troubles had given you more creativity."

My mom glanced at us, silently urging us again to run. Part of me refused to believe any of this was real. Maybe I was still unconscious and this was a concussion-induced nightmare. Next to me, Samuel picked up a large chunk of stone. I clamped my hand onto his wrist, begging him silently to wait.

"How many?" my mom asked quickly, trying to keep the fiery woman's attention. "How many did I release?"

"Why, all five," the woman said, holding up her fingers as if explaining something to a child. "You should know we're a package deal, Julia. Soon I'll release even more, and they'll be very grateful. I shall be named queen again."

"The Demon Days," my mother said. "They'll stop you before it's too late."

The fiery woman laughed. "You think the House can stop me? Those old fools can't even stop arguing among themselves. Now let the story be told anew. And this time you shall never rise!"

The fiery woman waved her hand. The blue circle at Mom's feet went dark. Mom frantically grabbed for her toolbox, but it skittered across the floor out of reach.

"Good-bye, Osiris," the fiery woman said. With another flick of her hand, she conjured a glowing coffin around our mom. At first it was transparent, but as our mother struggled and pounded on its sides, the coffin became more and more solid—a golden Egyptian sarcophagus inlaid with jewels. My mom caught my eyes one last time, and mouthed the word "Run!" In an instant, the coffin sank into the floor, as if the ground had turned to a sink-hole.

"MOM!" I screamed.

Samuel threw his stone, but it sailed harmlessly through the fiery woman's head. She turned, and for one terrible moment, her face appeared in the flames. What I saw made no sense. It was as if someone had superimposed two different faces on top of each other—one almost human, with pale skin, cruel, angular features, and glowing red eyes, the other like an animal with dark fur and sharp fangs. Worse than a dog or a wolf or a lion—some animal I'd never seen before.

Those red eyes stared at me, and I knew I was going to die.

Behind me, heavy footsteps echoed on the marble floor of the Great Court. Voices were barking orders. The security guards, maybe the police—but they'd never get here in time. The fiery woman lunged at us. A few inches from my face, something shoved her backward. The air sparked with electricity. The amulet around my neck grew uncomfortably hot.

The fiery woman hissed, regarding me more carefully. "So...it's you."

The building shook again. At the opposite end of the room, part of the wall exploded in a brilliant flash of light. Two people stepped through the gap—the woman and the boy we'd seen at the Needle, their robes swirling around them. Both of them held staffs.

The fiery woman snarled. She looked at me one last time and said, "Soon, girl."

Then the entire room erupted in flames. A blast of heat sucked all the air of out my lungs and I crumpled to the floor.

The last thing I remember, the woman and the boy in blue were standing over me. I heard the security guards running and shouting, getting closer. The boy crouched over me and drew a long curved knife from his belt.

"We must act quickly," he told the woman, placing the sword along my neck. I tried desperately to move, but couldn't even twitch a finger.

"Not yet," she said with some reluctance. Her thick accent sounded French. "We must be sure before we destroy them."

She muttered something over me, and the pain and exhausted suddenly became too much. I closed my eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

 **Wow! It's been a long time since I updated! Things have been absolutely crazy at my house (I'm an aunt now! :D ), so as you imagine, I haven't had much time. Hope you guys like the chapter since I made it a bit longer. I also updated the story cover with an image I drew. I really like how Carla came out but not as much Samuel. Oh well. I hope everyone is enjoying the holidays and I'll try my best to update more soon.**

 **Cat**


	7. Chapter 3

**merendinoemiliano : Thank you so much! I'm planning on developing the relationship between Nepthys and Anubis (Annie) more in this story. She didn't get a lot of appreciation in the original series because she wasn't as 'powerful' as the other 5, but given the importance of the Nile, I would think of her as one of the most powerful. Besides that, I'm open to suggestions. I dislike hemophilia as well, as it can be just as damaging to equal rights as homophobia. I literally had to look up what yaoi was, but yeah, assuming people's sexuality or manipulating them for entertainment is messed up. I know that there are many fandoms that hypothesis Sadie is pansexual (given the fluid nature of her (SPOLIERS) relationship with both Anubis and Walt). I would love to incorporate this, but don't want marginalize anyone. Let me know what you think, and sorry for the length. Thank you again!**

 **3\. Imprisoned with My Cat**

[Give me the bloody mic, Carla!]

Hullo. Samuel here. Sorry you've had to listen to my sister gab on and on about all the boring parts. For all the time that she spends with her nose in a book, you'd think she'd be a better story teller. But now you've got me, so all is well.

Let's see. The explosion. Rosetta Stone in a billion pieces. Fiery evil lady. Mum boxed in a coffin. Creepy Frenchwoman and Arab guy with the knife. Us passing out. Right. Did this really happen in the same day? And to think that this morning my biggest issue was that I procrastinated doing my English project.

So anyway, when I woke up, the police were rushing about as you might expect. They separated me from my sister. Part of me didn't mind that. She was a pain in the butt normally. But I almost felt bad for her. She looked shell shocked, clothing desperately onto mum's bag, staring at the spot where she sunk through the floor. I almost wanted to give her a hug. Almost.

The officers barely let me get a word out before dismissing my story. Logically, I couldn't blame them. I must have sounded bonkers. But at the moment, I didn't care about rationality. They dragged me down the hallway and locked me in the curator's office. And yes, they used our bicycle chain to do it. Cretins the lot of 'em.

I was shattered, of course. I'd just been knocked out by a fiery whatever-it-was. I'd watched my mum get packed in a sarcophagus and shot through the floor. I tried to tell the police about all that, but did they care? No.

Worst of all: I had a lingering chill, as if someone was pushing ice-cold needles into the back of my neck. It had started when I looked at those blue glowing words Mum had written on the Rosetta Stone. I still couldn't understand how I knew what they meant. A family disease, maybe? Can knowledge of boring Egyptian stuff be passed down? Judging by my luck, it could. I'd probably end up a nerdy, shut-in within the month.

Long after my gum had gone stale, a policeman finally retrieved me from the curator's office. He didn't bother asking me any questions, having probably been warned about the "crazy bloke". Either that, or he recognized me from the station. I had only had minor run ins with the law, but I always left an impression. It was the least I could do after being charged for a ring and run.

He just trundled me into a police car and took me home. Gramps opened the door with Gram by his side. They didn't look surprised, and I noticed that other officers had beaten us here. I tried to speak, but the man grabbed me roughly by my arm and dragged me upstairs. He pushed me forward, and said "Wait" before slamming the door.

So I waited.

.

.

.

And waited.

.

.

.

.

I don't like waiting.

I paced back and forth, glancing at the door every other second. My room was nothing posh, just an attic space with a window, a bed, and desk. There wasn't much to do besides do school work. And I was no were near desperate enough to resort to that. Muffin sniffed my legs and hissed, his tail puffing up like a bottlebrush. I suppose he doesn't fancy the smell of museums, which makes sense. I raised him well. I reached down to pet him, and he rubbed against me shortly before nipping my hand and disappeared under the bed.

"Thanks a lot," I muttered.

I desperately wanted to know what was going on downstairs. I tried the knob on the door, but it was locked. I know most door lock from the inside, but after my 3rd time sneaking out, Gramps switched it. They must have found his key. I pressed my ear against the wood, straining to hear anything. There were muffled voices and the creaking of wood, as if someone was pacing back and forth. Try as I might, I couldn't distinguish what they were saying or even who was talking. Defeated, I trudged back and flopped onto my bed.

I dug out my iPod and scrolled through my playlists. They were all customized to different situations. Sad. Angry. Hot girl. Nothing struck me. I guess there was no way I would have made one for "Mum disappeared, Questioning all beliefs". I threw it on my bed in disgust.

When I'm too distracted for music, that is a very sad thing. My iPod went with me everywhere. After all, there was almost never a situation that wasn't improved by music. I wondered why Carla got to talk to the police first. It wasn't fair. I remembered her face at the museum. She looked like she had shut down. The last thing she needed was to spend time going over every detail with the cops. I had experience with this sort of thing, but I was fairly certain the worst thing she had done was keep a library book too long.

I fiddled with the necklace Mum had given me. I'd never been sure what the symbol meant. Carla's was obviously an eye, but mine looked a bit like an angel, or perhaps a fancy napkin holder. Why on earth had Mum asked if I still had it? Of course I still had it. It was the only gift she'd given me since Dad died. Well, apart from Muffin, and with the cat's attitude, I'm not sure I would call him a proper gift.

Mum had practically abandoned me at age six, after all. The necklace was my one link to her. On good days, I would stare at it and remember her fondly. The way that she would sing along to oldies music in the car. The crazy school projects and Halloween costumes she helped us pull off. The times when I would break something, or put it away in the wrong place, but she wouldn't yell. She'd just say that it was a strange coincidence, and wink at me.

On bad days (which were much more frequent), I would fling it across the room and stomp on it and curse her for not being around. She chose Carla over me and even though my grandparents loved me, it hurt. I could barely stand being around Carla now (not that we got along well as kids anyway). Trying to destroy the necklace was incredibly therapeutic for me. I don't know what it is made of, but no matter what I did to it, it never broke. At one point, I tried setting it on fire out of frustration, and it didn't even blacken. I always but it back on though. Besides the fact that I did still love my Mum, it might be able to stop a bullet or something crazy.

I noticed the weirdness of the necklace again at the museum. During the whole ordeal with the fiery lady and the crazy lights, the necklace started getting really hot. Not to the level of burning me, but hot enough that it was uncomfortable. I nearly took it off, but I couldn't help wondering if it actually was protecting me somehow.

I'll make things right, Mum had said, with that guilty look she always gives me.

Good job! You failed!

What had she been thinking?! All I wanted was to believe it had all been a bad dream: the glowing hieroglyphs, the snake staff, the coffin. They all sounded like the results of eating too much food or coffee before bed. Things like that simply don't happen. But I knew better. I never dreamt anything as horrifying as that fiery woman's face when she'd turned on us.

"Soon, girl," she'd told Carter. The look she had reminded me of a hunter who has wounded her prey, and is waiting for it to tire itself before killing it. Just the idea made my hands tremble. It did not bode well that we were the prey in this.

 **Hey! Sorry its been so long! Senior year is killing me! I hope that I did an o.k. job with Samuel's chapter. I'm not a guy, so I have no idea how to write from the point of view of one. i tried to give him some additional character development that I felt would fit with his character. As far as the trouble he has been into, I'm not making him an evil mastermind or drug dealer. But I always felt that Sadie got along with Set the best of any of the characters. She is more tuned towards trouble (but obviously peace overall). It's also hinted at her getting into trouble. I wanted to take this chance to develop this a little more, so I hope you like it. I know it's a weird place to leave it. This chapter didn't have many good breaks in it. There may be some spelling/gender mistakes because I've been building a set all day and am half asleep.**

 **Anyway, hope you liked it! Please review and give me suggestions to better this story or make others (or just stop XD ).**

 **Cat**


	8. Chapter 3 (Part 2)

**merendinoemiliano** **Thank you for all of your continued support! Please read the note at the bottom and let me know what you think! If you have any ideas for what else I should do to make this story better or to create others, let me know! Enjoy!**

 **imasurvivor21** **Thank you for the review! I hope that you like it!**

Chapter 3 (2)

I couldn't help wondering about our stop at Cleopatra's Needle, how Mum had insisted on seeing it. I had thought it was just a random stop, or maybe a sad reminder of Dad. But after what happened at the museum, I was worried it might have been her saying a final goodbye. Or worse, getting ready to meet Dad. The expression Mum had on her face was of steely determination, like she was preparing for her final moments, but I prayed that I was wrong.

Shaking my head, I tried to distract myself. The last thing that I needed was to confirm that my mother is dead. There wasn't much to do in my room. I had piles of laundry on the floor, but I wasn't going to resort to cleaning just yet. The walls were covered in posters and pictures. Slowly, my eyes wandered across my room and fixed on my desk.

No, I thought. Not going to do it.

But I walked over and opened the drawer. I shoved aside a few old magazines, the stash of sweets, a stack of grammar homework I'd forgotten to hand in. There were several pictures of my mates, Liam and Emmett, and I making faces and wreaking havoc at Camden Market. And there, at the bottom of it all, was the picture of Dad.

Gran and Gramps have loads of pictures. They keep a shrine to Reece in the hall cupboard—Dad's childhood artwork, his academic achievements, his graduation picture from university, his favorite music and books. They would even put fresh biscuits on it every day. It was supposed to "feed his soul," but all it ended up doing was feeding the mice.

It's all quite mental. I was determined not to be like them, always living in the past. Dad died when I was six. I barely had any memories of him, so there wasn't much to miss anyway. When I was younger, I would be embarrassed at school. Everyone else had two parents, and I had none. I did everything I could to avoid reminders of the first person to leave me, which included removing pictures.

But I did keep one picture. It was of Dad and I at our house in Los Angeles, just after I was born. He stood on the balcony, the Pacific Ocean behind him, holding a wrinkled pudgy lump of baby that would someday grow up to be yours truly. Baby me wasn't much to look at, but Dad was movie-star levels of handsome, even in shorts and a tattered T-shirt. His eyes were dark blue, with flecks of electric in them. Quite depressing compared to my dull ones. People always say I look like him, but he managed to exuded confidence and maturity while I looked like a stereotypical teen. Rude. Sarcastic. And refusing to grow up. It worked fine for me, but I knew that I didn't come across as fantastic to others.

[Stop smirking, Carla.]

The photo was one of the only connections to my Dad that I had. He had always been at work, so most of my time was spent with Mom. I remembered a few things; when he taught me to ride a bike, the times we would tease the girls for a girly movie, but end up watching anyway. But the main reason I'd kept the photo was because of the symbol on Dad's T-shirt—an ankh. If you've never seen it, it looks like a cross with a upside down tear drop on top. The ankh wasn't that interesting on it's own. It was a common symbol for life and fertility. But the irony of my dead father wearing the symbol for life was enough to make me keep the picture. Nothing could've been sadder. But despite this, he smiled at the camera as if he knew a secret. As if my dad and mum were sharing a joke I would never understand. Maybe it had something to do with the ankh.

Something tugged at the back of my mind. That tall woman in the trench coat who'd been arguing with Mum across the street—she'd said something about the Per Ankh. Had she meant ankh as in the symbol for life, and if so, what was a per? It didn't make sense as a ratio, unless the woman used charms as currency in a barter system. But her clothes looked tailored and expensive, so I couldn't imagine that being true. She definitely didn't mean pear as in the fruit.

There was no way that I would be able to guess what it meant. I couldn't even figure out who the woman was, much less what a word I had never seen or heard meant. I had an eerie feeling that if I saw the words Per Ankh written in hieroglyphics, I would know what they meant.

I put down the picture of Dad. I picked up a pencil and turned over one of my old homework papers. I wondered what would happen if I tried to draw the words Per Ankh. Would the right design just occur to me? Just as I touched pencil to paper, my bedroom door opened.

"Mr. Kane?"

I whirled and dropped the pencil, which clattered loudly across the floor. A police inspector stood frowning in my doorway, his eyes following the pencil. He stooped down and picked it up, inspecting it carefully, as if it was a hidden bomb.

"What are you doing?"

"Practicing language," I said. Technically true. I didn't specify what language it was.

My ceiling was low and slanted, so the inspector had to stoop to come in. He wore a lint-colored suit that matched his gray hair and his ashen face. "Now then, Samuel. I'm Chief Inspector Williams. Let's have a little chat, shall we? Sit down."

I refused to sit out of spite, leaning against the desk with my arms crossed. It must've annoyed him, because he set his jaw and tried his best to look intimidating, which was hard with his head bend to the side and him stooping like Quasimodo. For once, I was glad that I hadn't hit another growth spurt. At least I could stand up straight.

"Tell me everything, please," he said, "from the time your mother came round to get you to when the officers showed up."

"I already told the police at the museum."

"Again, if you don't mind."

So I told him everything. Why not? His eyes widened as I told him all the strange bits like the glowing letters and serpent staff. It sounded like something out of the next adventure movie. Complete with the sin of the "superheroes having dead parents" cliché. Ding.

"Well, Samuel," Inspector Williams said. "You've got quite an imagination on you. How long did it take you to come up with that elaborate story? Certainly you could have founded a better use for your time besides constructing elementary level lies."

I took a deep breathe, steadying myself. The last thing I needed was to get into even more trouble by punching an officer. "I'm not lying, Inspector. And if you open your eyes any more, they'll pop out."

He scowled, furrowing his brow. "Now, Samuel, I'm sure this is very hard on you. I understand you want to protect your mother's reputation. But she's gone now—"

"Yeah. Gone through the floor in a coffin," I insisted. "Not dead."

Inspector Williams sighed, giving me a sad look, and putting his hand on my shoulder. "Samuel, I'm very sorry. But we must find out why she did this act of...well..."

"Act of…?" Don't say it. Stop right there.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your mother destroyed priceless artifacts and killed herself in the process."

I glared at him. "Are you accusing my mother of being a terrorist? Have you gone round the bend?!"

"We've already made calls to some of your mother's associates. I understand her behavior had become erratic since your father's death. She'd become withdrawn and obsessive in her studies, spending more and more time in Egypt."

"She's a bloody Egyptologist! You should be looking for her, not asking stupid questions!"

"Samuel," he said, and I could hear in his voice that he was resisting the urge to strangle me. I get this a lot from adults. And pretty much everyone else. Except kids. Destructive toddlers really get me.

"There are extremist groups in Egypt that object to Egyptian artifacts being kept in other countries' museums. These people might have approached your mother. Perhaps her single, unwed state made your mother an easy target for a member of these groups. Maybe someone who she was dating? If you've heard her mention any names—"

I stormed past him to the window. I was so angry I could hardly think, my ears ringing from the pressure of my clenched jaw. I was definitely going to have a migraine after this. I refused to believe Mum was dead. I had already lost one parent, and even if she was lackluster at times, I was not about to lose another. Nothing about what happened made sense. But until I saw a body, or someone I trusted told me, I would not believe she was dead. And a terrorist? Or dating one? Give me a break! Mum carries around a picture of Dad in her wallet, and looks at it with all of the love of a gushy high schooler. Why did adults have to be so thick? They always say "tell the truth". If you don't, you get in trouble. If you do, they don't believe you. And then they wonder why kids lie all the time.

I stared down at the dark street. Suddenly that cold tingly feeling got worse than ever. It felt like thousands of spiders were running over me. I focused on the dead tree where I'd met Mum earlier. Standing there now, in the dim light of a streetlamp, looking up at me, was a woman in a black trench coat and the round glasses and the fedora— the woman Mum had called Amos.

I suppose I should've felt threatened by an odd woman staring up at me in the dark of night. She somehow knew where my room was. But her expression was full of concern, like a loving parent looking at a sick child (at least what it looked like in movies). And she looked so familiar. It was driving me mad that I couldn't remember anything about her.

Behind me, the inspector cleared his throat. "Samuel, no one blames you for the attack on the museum. As we understand it, you were dragged into this against your will."

I turned from the window. "Against my will? I chained the curator in his office." And had fun doing it.

The inspector sighed, and shook his head. "Be that as it may, surely you didn't understand what your father meant to do. Or they were coercing you? Possibly your sister was involved?"

I snorted. "Carla? Please. The only thing she would try to coerce me into would be to actually do my homework"

"So you are determined to protect her as well. You consider her a proper sister?"

I couldn't believe it. I wanted to smack his face. "What's that supposed to mean? Because her skin is a different color she's not a 'proper sister'?"

The inspector blinked. "I only meant—"

"I know exactly what you meant. You assume that because I'm 'white' that my terrorist of a sister and mother managed to corrupt my poor, innocent soul. News flash! We have the same parents! She's my sister! Just because I looked lighter than her doesn't mean that she's a bloody terrorist!"

Inspector Williams held up his hands apologetically, but I was still seething. As much as Carla annoyed me, I hated it when people assumed we weren't related, or looked at my mother odd when she said the three of us were a family. At first they assume that we have two different fathers, or that I'm adopted. I never understood why that would be a problem for anyone. It's not their family! But people acted stupidly about things that didn't concern them all the time. Stupid Dr. Martin at the museum. Stupid Inspector Williams. It happened every time Mum and Carla and I were together. Every. Bloody. Time.

"I'm sorry, Samuel," the inspector said. "I only want to make sure we separate the innocent from the guilty. It will be so much easier for everyone if you cooperate. Any information. Anything your mother said. People she might've mentioned."

"Amos," I blurted out, just to see his reaction. "She met a woman named Amos outside the house before we went to the museum."

Inspector Williams sighed. "Samuel, please stop lying. She couldn't have done. We spoke with Amos not one hour ago, on the phone from her home in New York."

"She isn't in New York!" I insisted. "She's right—"

I glanced out the window and Amos was gone. Bloody typical.

"That's not possible," I said.

"Exactly," the inspector said.

"But she was here!" I exclaimed. "Who is she? One of Mum's colleagues? How did you know to call her?"

"Really, Samuel. This acting must stop."

"Acting?"

The inspector studied me for a moment, then set his jaw as if he'd made a decision. "We've already heard the truth from Carla. I didn't want to upset you, but she told us everything. She understands there's no point in protecting your mother now. We are only trying to confirm what she said. You might as well help us, and there will be no charges against you."

"You shouldn't lie to children!" I yelled, hoping my voice carried all the way downstairs. "Carla would never say a word against Mum, and neither will I!"

The inspector didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

He crossed his arms. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Samuel. I'm afraid it's time we went downstairs...to discuss consequences with your grandparents."

It was about damn time.

 **Hey guys! Hope you like the new chapter. Was listening to intense music while writing this, so sorry if you think that Samuel is OOC. Personally I think Sadie is a bad***, and really wanted to bring out that side of her in Samuel. On a more serious note, I always enjoyed how Rick challenged racial profiling in this scene. I left that in (and added more to it), but also played up the stereotype that women are incapable of committing crimes or making major decisions. Obviously, Julia is not a terrorist, but I wanted to make the point that women are capable of making extreme decisions with and without the influence of men. Let me know what you think of it. Please review, and give me any suggestions for this story or others. Thank you!**

 **Cat**


	9. Chapter 4 (Part 1)

**For any who didn't see, this was the author's note I had on my last update (different story)**

 **Hey guys. I am so so sorry about not posting anything new for the longest time. To those of you who just want to read the story and not hear my excuses, feel free to scroll ahead. Fair warning there may be some trigger words/descriptions here, so please don't read if you are sensitive to that stuff. You guys don't really know anything other than my nickname on here, but I've been really struggling lately. And not just in the "not feeling like writing" way. I mean in the not wanting to get out of bed way. I have really severe depression and anxiety. I was gone for such a long time because it was talking all my energy and focus to just get out of bed in the morning and go to school. I went through a really dark time these past two years, and these last couple months have been incredibly frustrating and stressful. I didn't update for the longest time, and whenever I got the urge to, I would chicken out because of my fear that anyone who had read my stories would now hate me. I know it doesn't make sense, but this is what my illness makes me feel. I'm doing a bit better now, but I just hope that you guys aren't too mad at me and haven't completely forgotten about me (though I wouldn't be shocked if you did). I want to thank everyone who left comments (specifics below) encouraging me and asking for more chapters. I got to such a bad point that I couldn't open them out of fear that someone would be mad at me. Now I regret that as you all have been so accommodating and supportive, and only a tad annoyed. Thank you again so much and I apologize.**

 **Comments: (From all Stories)**

 **Guest666: Thank you for your support and compliments. Hopefully now you won't need that strongly worded letter. I'm taking your suggestions into account, as you can see, but mostly I wanted to thank you for your well meaning and thoughtful comment. It really meant the world to me.**

 **merendinoemiliano** **: Thank you! See this one came up much quicker.**

 **imasurvivor21** **: Heyo! Thank you for your supportive comments. I never really feel like I know what I'm doing, so I'm glad that I'm at least ok at faking it.**

 **Nimbus Gray: NOT THE GIANT PINK KITTENS! AAHHHHHIWENFOFVPNWPVNIWONC! And also I hope that you will see this and I can get you to like my other story as well.**

 **Amora23: Thank you! And I will be making them like each other eventually, however I like to make them annoy each other first. To be honest (as I have siblings myself) its a little therapeutic. But I will be keeping it as canological as possible, only changing what I need to in order to fit the characters change in gender.**

 **Blah Blah Blah Disclaimer: I don't own the Kane Chronicles or any of the character or ideas. All credit for aforementioned items goes to Rick Riordan. I used the book as a basis so yes its very similar. No I'm not trying to sell this. Yes it's legal. Enjoy!**

Chapter 4. Kidnapped by a Not-So-Stranger

I JUST LOVE FAMILY MEETINGS. Very cozy, with Christmas garlands round the fireplace, a pot of tea boiling on the stove, and a detective from Scotland Yard ready to arrest you and your entire family. Cheerful, yeah?

Carla slumped on the sofa, a sharp contrast to how she usually sat; prim and proper. In her arms she clutched Mum's workbag. I wondered why the police had let her keep it. It should have been confiscated and put into evidence as soon as we were shoved in the squad car, but the inspector didn't seem to notice it at all.

Carla looked awful—I mean even worse than usual. Honestly, since the girl had never been in a proper school (or even a public one she dressed like a cross between a nun and the least sexy librarian ever. She wore a below knee length khaki skirt,a button-down blouse, and black flats. She's not terribly bad looking, I suppose. She's reasonably tall with a slight athletic build (though how that happened after years spend in libraries, I'll never know). She's got Mum's eyes and hair, and my mates Liam and Erik have even told me from her picture that she's "hot". I take that with a grain of salt though because (a) she's my sister, and (b) my mates are a bit crazed. Puberty could be a right foul git when it wanted too, and quite frankly, I wouldn't put it past them to flirt with a stop sign. When it came to clothes, Carla wouldn't have known hot if it bit her on the bum.

[Oh, don't look at me like that, Carla. You know it's true.]

At any rate, I shouldn't have been too hard on her. She was taking Mum's disappearance even worse than I was. Which was fair. She had grown up with Mum. I had already learned to live without her.

Gran and Gramps sat on either side of her, looking quite nervous. The pot of tea and a plate of biscuits sat on the table, but no one was having any. Chief Inspector Williams ordered me into the only free chair. Then she paced in front of the fireplace, neck stretched up like a giraffe with a arrogance complex. Two more police stood by the front door—the man from earlier and a woman who kept eyeing the biscuits.

"Mr. and Mrs. Faust," Inspector Williams said, "I'm afraid we have two uncooperative children."

Gran fidgeted with the trim of her dress. It's hard to believe she's related to Dad. Gran is frail and colorless, like a stick person really, while Dad in the photos always looked so happy and full of life. "They're just children," she managed. "Surely you can't blame them."

"Pah!" Gramps said. "This is ridiculous, Inspector. They aren't responsible!"

Gramps is a former rugby player. He has beefy arms, a belly much too big for his shirt, and eyes sunk deep in his face, as if someone had punched them (well, actually Mum had punched them years ago, but that's another story). Gramps is quite scary looking. Usually people got out of his way, but Inspector Williams didn't seem impressed.

"Mr. Faust," she said, "what do you imagine the morning headlines will read? 'British Museum attacked. Rosetta Stone destroyed.' Your daughter-in-law—"

"Former daughter-in-law," Gramps corrected.

"—was most likely vaporized in the explosion, or she ran off; neither of which bode well for your image—"

"She didn't run off!" I shouted.

"We need to know where she is," the inspector continued. "And the only witnesses, your grandchildren, refuse to tell me the truth."

"We did tell you the truth," Carla muttered. She looked near tears and utterly hopeless, but she managed to keep her voice steady. "Mom isn't dead. She sank through the floor."

Inspector Williams glanced at Gramps, as if to say, 'There, you see? Crazy, uncooperative children'. Which I was, but it seemed unfair to put that label of my sister too. Then he turned to Carla. "Young lady, your mother has committed a serious criminal act. She's left you behind to deal with the consequences—"

"That's not true!" I snapped, my voice trembling with rage. I couldn't believe Mum would intentionally leave us at the mercy of police. Most visits we were lucky if she let us handle getting sweets from the vending machine by ourselves. But if I was being honest, the idea of her abandoning me—well, as I might have mentioned, that's a bit of a sore point.

"Darling, please," Gran told me, "the inspector is only doing her job."

"Poorly!" I exclaimed, thrusting my hands in the air. What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. It at least got the inspector to stop her pacing.

"Let's all have some tea," Gran begged.

"No!" Carla and I yelled at once, which made me feel bad for Gran, as she practically wilted into the sofa.

"We can charge you," the inspector warned, turning on me. "We can and we will. Obstruction of justice. As accomplices. Kidnapping. You may be minor but don't think that will -

Suddenly, she froze, mouth agape. Then she blinked several times, as if she'd forgotten what she was doing.

Gramps frowned. "Er, Inspector?"

"Yes..." Chief Inspector Williams murmured dreamily. She reached in her waistcoat pocket and took out a little blue booklet before throwing it onto Carla's lap. I glanced at her questioningly as her face, if possible, looked even more shocked. She held it up, showing me the emboldened eagle on the front - it was an American passport.

"You're being deported," the inspector announced. "You're to leave the country within twenty-four hours. If we need to question you further, you'll be contacted through the FBI."

Carla's mouth fell open. She looked at me, and I knew I wasn't imagining how odd this was. The inspector had completely changed direction. He'd been about to arrest us. I was sure of it. And then out of the blue, he was deporting Carla? Even the other police officers looked confused.

"Sir?" the policewoman asked. "Are you sure—"

"Quiet, Linley. The two of you may go."

The cops hesitated until Williams made a shooing motion with his hand. Then they left, closing the door behind them.

"Hold on," Carla said. "My mother's disappeared, and you want me to leave the country? With whom?! I'm underage, I can't be deported without any reason or supervision! And why are you giving me a passport? I already have one."

"Your mother is either dead or a fugitive, girl," the inspector said. "Deportation is the kindest option. It's already been arranged."

"With whom?" Gramps demanded. It surprised me to think that Gramps cared enough about Carla to question the inspector. The Faust's tended to treat anything or anyone who involved themselves with my mother, besides myself, as unfit to talk to. But maybe they did have a soft side. "Who authorized this?"

"The..." The inspector got that funny blank look again. "With the proper authorities. Believe me, it's better than juvie."

Carla looked too devastated to speak, but before I could feel too sorry for her, Inspector Williams spoke up. "As for the passport, that would be for Mr. Kane here. I thought it better to give it to Carla, as I'm not sure Samuel would hold onto it. You're both to be deported this night."

She might as well have hit me with a sledgehammer.

"You're deporting me?" I asked. "I live here!"

"You're an American citizen who up until this point has been permitted to live here. But you are no longer to be living with your grandparents. And under the circumstances, it's best for you to return home."

I just stared at her. I couldn't remember any home except this flat. My mates at school, my room, everything I knew was here. I may have been born in America, but it would never be my home. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"Inspector," Gran said, her voice trembling. "This isn't fair. I can't believe—"

"I'll give you some time to say good-bye," the inspector interrupted. Then she frowned as if baffled by her own actions. Her hand briefly hesitated over the handcuffs before relaxing again. "I—I must be going."

This made no sense, and the inspector seemed to realize it, but she walked to the front door anyway. When she opened it, I almost fell out of my chair, because the woman in black, Amos, was standing there. She'd ditched the trench coat and hat somewhere, but was still wearing the same pinstripe suit and round glasses. Her braided hair glittered with gold beads. She could have been a model if she wasn't so intimidating.

I thought the inspector would say something, or express surprise, but she didn't even acknowledge Amos. She walked right past her and into the night without so much of a glance in her direction.

Amos came inside and closed the door. Gran and Gramps stood up.

"You," Gramps growled. "I should've known. If I was younger, I'd kick you out of here myself. Don't make me call the inspector back."

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Faust. Lovely to meet you again. " Amos said. He looked at Carter and me as if we were problems to be solved. "It's time we had a talk. We have plenty of time. I assure you the inspector will not be returning anytime soon. No, I've sent her out for nice dinner. She might even get through dessert before she realizes where she's supposed to be. And speaking of dessert..."

Amos sat down onto the sofa, patting the seat next to her, but Gramps remained standing. She sighed and poured herself tea with a liberal portion of sugar. She munched on a biscuit, which was quite dangerous, because Gran's biscuits are horrid. Chunky and burnt, plus with her old age Gran was likely to accidently put a button in the batter by mistake.

I thought Gramps's head would explode. His face went bright red. He came up behind Amos and raised his hand as if he were about to smack her, but Amos kept munching her biscuit. She was either entirely oblivious to the situation or had an excellent poker face.

"Mr. Faust," she said faced forward, "I must ask that you refrain from doing that. I can't say its ill deserved but I am here for the sake of your grandchildren. You know I would never hurt them. Or would you rather Samuel here be deported and sent to a boy's home?"

Gramps froze where he was, looking at me with softening eyes before dropping his hands. As if on cue, though she had never turned around, Amos said, "Fantastic, a civil conversation at last. Now then, why don't we all have a seat?"

And we all sat. It was the strangest thing—as if we'd been waiting for her order. Even Gramps moved round the sofa and sat next to Amos with a disgusted sigh. Gramps never took to anyone threatening him and he certainly didn't follow the orders of someone who did. But something about her voice made me want to sit. I could tell whoever she was, she was not normal, and this day was about to get a whole lot stranger.

 **Alright. I know it wasn't ground breaking or anything like that. I have a laptop now so hopefully I will be motivated and chapter/posts will be coming more regularly now. Sorry again about that very long hiatus. Constructive criticism and reviews are always appreciated and never cease to make my day.**

 **Until next time,**

 **Cat**


	10. Chapter 4 (Part 2)

**Hey guys, sorry for the wait. I really have no excuses besides I love to sleep and the usual stuff. Hope you enjoy it. I know it's a little shorter than usual, but the chapter ended so…. Yeah. Finally, we are gonna start getting into the good stuff and out of the tons of exposition!**

 **Comments:**

 **Imasurvivor21: Ha! Don't worry, I am completely lazy too, probably worse actually. Thank you so much! I'm new to this, so the positive reviews are really motivating. Please let me know if you want me to write anything shorter (one shot, 5 + 1 series, etc) for you along the same lines (genderbent). The practice could do me some good and I'd be more than happy to do it for you. Thank you again!**

 **Merendinoemiliano** **: Thank you for all the support, it does mean something. I'm sorry you had a rough time too, and if you ever need someone to talk to or to write a stupid fluff piece to cheer you up, I'm here. As for the description of Carla, I said that she looked like their mom. Keep in mind, their mom in this is the genderbent version of Julius, so yes, Carla is African American and has Julius/Julia's hair, not blonde. I don't see where I made that mistake, but if I did please let me know. I would never intentionally white wash a character like that. Thank you again!**

Chapter 4 Part 2

Amos sipped her tea and regarded me with the same displeased look that my grandparents gave me everytime I dyed my hair a different color.. That wasn't fair, I thought. I didn't look that bad, considering what we'd been through.

Then she looked at Carla and grunted. "Terrible timing," she muttered. "But there's no other way. They'll both have to come with me."

"Excuse me?" I exclaimed. "Hello? Stranger danger not ringing a bell for anyone else? I'm not going anywhere with some crazy woman who can't even eat a biscuit without getting crumbs all over her face.!"

She flushed, wiping at her face before shaking her head and fixing me with a hard stare.. "I'm no stranger, Sam," he said. "Don't you remember?"

It was creepy hearing her talk to me in such a familiar, even fond, way. I felt I should know her. I looked at Carla, but she seemed just as mystified as I was. It comforted me a little that at least I was not the only one who seemed to be affected by this weird amnesia thing.

"No, Amos," Gran said, trembling. "You can't take Samuel. We had an agreement."

"Yes, we did. Until, Julia broke that agreement tonight," Amos interrupted. "You know you can't care for Samuel anymore— not after what's happened. How long is it before the inspector comes back? What if they were to be discovered? Their only chance is to come with me."

'Discovered' I mouthed at Carla, but she shrugged back.

"Why should we go anywhere with you?" Carla asked. "You almost got in a fight with Mom!"

Amos looked at the workbag in Carla's lap. "I see you kept your mother's bag. Smart girl. You'll need it. As for getting into fights, Julia and I did that quite a lot. You should be familiar with the strains of having a sibling who is... different than you." With that she glanced at me, and gave a small smile. She was teasing me. "Not that that's always a bad thing. And, if you didn't notice, Carla, I was attempting to stop her from doing something rash. If she'd listened to me, you would have had no need to ever meet me."

I had no idea what she was on about, but Gramps apparently understood. "You and your superstitions!" he said. "I told you we don't believe in that hocus pocus nonsense."

Amos quirked an eyebrow and pointed to the back patio. Through the glass doors, the city lights danced across the Thames. It was quite a nice view at night, when you couldn't notice how run-down some of the buildings were.

"Superstition, is it?" Amos asked. "So you found a place on the east side of the river for the cheap rent, I suppose?."

Gramps turned even redder. "That was Randy's idea. Insisted that it would protect us. But he was wrong about many things, wasn't he? He trusted Julia and you, for one!"

Amos looked unfazed. She stretched her arms, and I caught of breath of what must have been her perfume. It smelled interesting—like old-timey spices, copal and amber, like the incense shops in Covent Garden. She finished her tea and looked straight at Gran.

"Mrs. Faust, you know what's begun. The police are the least of your worries." Gran swallowed. "You...you changed that inspector's mind. You made her deport Samuel."

"It was that or see the children arrested," Amos said.

"Hold up," I said. "You changed Inspector Williams's mind? Like what, a Jedi- mind trick? These are not the children you're looking for? Did you bribe her or something?"

Amos shrugged. "It's not permanent. In fact, as I had mentioned before, we should get to New York in the next hour or so before Inspector Williams begins to wonder why she let you go."

Carla laughed incredulously and gave a slight role of the eye. "You can't get to New York from London in a hour. Not even the fastest plane—"

"No," Amos agreed. "Not a plane."

She turned back to Gran as if everything had been settled. "Mrs. Faust, Carla and Samuel have only one safe option. You know that. They'll come to the mansion in Brooklyn. I can protect them there."

"You've got a mansion?" Carla questioned. She looked at me for some explanation, but this whole situation was like something out of a telly show. Mysterious stranger with a mansion. Missing mother. What was this, the first act of Annie?

"In Brooklyn." Amos gave her an amused smile. "It belongs in the family. You'll be safe there."

"But our mom—"

"Is beyond your help for now," Amos said sadly. "I'm sorry, Carla. I know you must be worried sick about your mother and my sudden appearance isn't helping any. I'll explain everything later, but, above all, Julia would want you to be safe. For that, we must move quickly. I'm afraid I'm all you've got."

That was a bit harsh, I thought. Carla was doing a good job at holding it together, but Mum was all she had ever known. Carla glanced at Gran and Gramps searching for some note of dissent to Amos' plan. Then she nodded glumly. She knew that they didn't want him around. He'd always reminded them of our Mum. And yes, it was a stupid reason not to take in your granddaughter, but there you are. But hell if I were going without out a fight.

"Well, Carla can do what she wants," I said. "But I live here. And I'm not going off with some stranger, right Gran?"

I looked at her for support, but she was staring at the lace doilies on the table as if they were suddenly quite interesting. "Gramps, surely..." But he wouldn't meet my eyes either. He turned to Amos.

"You can get them out of the country? Safely?"

"Hang on!" I protested. Amos stood and wiped the crumbs off her jacket. She walked to the patio doors and stared out at the river. Honestly, was there such need for dramatics from her when I was the one about to be deported?

"The police will be back soon. Tell them anything you like. They won't find us." Well, that sounded ominous.

"You're going to kidnap us?" I stood, stunned.

I looked at Carla. "Do you believe this?" Carla shouldered the workbag. Then she stood like she was ready to go. She had a look of sad determination etched on her face.

"Samuel, just calm down. It's not a kidnapping if your grandparents consented. Don't make things more difficult than they already are." she sighed, before turning to Amos.

"How exactly do you plan to get to New York in the hour?" she asked. "You said, not a plane, but there's nothing faster."

"That's partially true," Amos agreed. She put her finger to the window and traced something in the condensation— another bloody hieroglyph. It had four parts; a hand, what looked like kids blocks, and...

"A boat," I said—then realized I'd translated aloud, which I wasn't supposed to be able to do. Amos peered at me over the top of her round glasses. "Yes, but how did you—"

"I mean that last bit looks like a boat," I blurted out. "But that can't be what you mean. That's ridiculous."

"Look!" Carla cried. I pressed in next to her at the patio doors. Down at the quayside, a boat was docked. But not a regular boat, mind you. It was an Egyptian reed boat, with two torches burning in the front (a major fire hazard), and a big rudder in the back. A figure in a black trench coat and hat—possibly Amos's—stood at the tiller. I'll admit, for once, I was at a loss for words. Shocking, I know.

"We're going in that?" Carter asked with a mix of disbelief and awe.

"It's faster than it looks. We'd better get started," Amos replied. Alright, magically appearing boats are where I drew the line. I whirled back to my grandmother.

"Gran, please!" She shook her head and brushed a tear from her cheek. She wrapped me in a tight hug, rubbing the back of my head.

"It's for the best, my dear. You should take Cupcake."

"Ah, yes," Amos said. "We can't forget the cat."

She turned towards the stairs and snapped her fingers. As if on cue, Cupcake raced down in a leopard-spotted streak and leaped into my arms. I barely managed to catch him I was so shocked. He never does that.

"Who are you?" I asked Amos. It was clear I was running out of options, but I at least wanted answers. "We can't just go off with some stranger."

"I'm not a stranger." Amos smiled at me. "I'm family."

And suddenly I remembered her face smiling down at me, singing, "Happy birthday, Samuel." A memory so distant, I'd almost forgotten.

"Aunt Amos?" I asked hazily.

"That's right, Samuel," he said. "I'm Julias's sister. Now come along. We have a long way to go."

 **Wow, that only took forever! I'm sorry. Motivation blah blah excuses blah blah you probably notice this pattern by now. Hope you enjoyed! I know it's shorter than usual, but it was the end of the chapter so I wanted to end this upload there. Next one should be up sometime soon (within next two weeks at most). If I can get it up earlier, I will.**

 **Please let me know if you have any suggestions and any requests for other writing. I really enjoy getting the creative juices flowing and working on something different. My favorite type is Hurt/Comfort, but I'm more than able to do something else (and from another series) if you want. PM me or leave a comment if you want.**

 **Anyway, thank you guys for all the support.**

 **Until next time,**

 **Cat**


	11. Chapter 5

**Hey guys! Here's a nice long chapter in a feeble attempt to make up for my typical long periods of not updating. I know, I suck. But I hope you, enjoy the chapter anyway! Let me know what you think about having a long chapter and keeping the original chapters all together. Does it make it more cohesive or does it just drag?**

 **Also, there is a comment in here about the gods being genderfluid in a way. I know this isn't canon, but it makes sense to me. I mean they shift into animals and half human half animals all the time. Why wouldn't they switch other things? It happens frequently in other mythologies. IDK. To me, it seemed interesting, but I did not want to offend anyone.**

 **Comments:**

 **Imasurvivor21** **: Thank you again for you review! Sorry about all the pronoun mistakes. I don't have anyone to read over the stuff I write and I usually am writing as quick as I can in order to make up long periods of absence, so when I post something, it's pretty much a first draft. When I have time, I'll go through and fix all the mistakes, I promise. Hopefully there's no mistakes in this, but there probably will be.**

 **Merendinoemiliano** **: Yay! Thank you so much! This is all of chapter five, so hopefully you'll enjoy having the chapter all together. Let me know. I hope you enjoy, and thank you again!**

Chapter 5

It's Carla again. Sorry about the delay, though now that I'm thinking about it, you won't be able to tell on the tape.. We had to turn it off for a while because we were being followed by—well, we'll get to that later.

Samuel was telling you how we left London, right? Well anyway, we followed Amos down to the weird boat docked at the quayside. I cradled Moms's workbag under my arm; the familiar object seemed like the only stable thing I had. Even my suitcase had been confiscated. I still couldn't believe she was gone. I felt guilty leaving London without her, but I believed Amos about one thing: Mom was beyond our help. At this rate, we were lucky to not be in hail much less rescuing my Mom from some interdimensional portal of a sarcophagus.

I didn't trust Amos as far as I could throw her, but I figured if I wanted to find out what had happened to Mom, I was going to have to go along with her. She was the only one who seemed to know anything. I don't know if Samuel had the tact to pretend or if the fact that she was our "aunt" was enough to sway him.

Amos stepped aboard the reed boat, making it sway slightly. Samuel jumped right on, but I hesitated. I'd seen boats like this on the Nile before, and they never seemed very sturdy. It was basically woven together from coils of plant fiber—like a giant floating carpet. Plus, the giant torches on the front made the entire thing a floating fire hazard. It would be just our luck to burn surrounded by water.

At the back, the tiller was seemed to be manned by a little guy wearing Amos's black trench coat and hat. The hat was shoved down so far on his head so I couldn't see his face. His hands and feet were lost in the folds of the coat.

"How does this thing move?" I asked Amos. "You've got no sail or oars."

"Trust me." Amos said, and offered me a hand. The night was cold, but when I stepped on board I suddenly felt warmer, as if the torchlight were emitting the heat of a small oven. In the middle of the boat was a hut made from woven mats. From Samuel's arms, Cupcake sniffed at it and shunk back, growling.

"Take a seat inside," Amos suggested. "The trip might be a little rough."

"I'll stand, thanks." I replied, unwilling to leave Samuel alone with Amos.

Samuel nodded at the little guy in back. "Who's your driver?" Amos acted as if she hadn't heard the question.

"Hang on, everyone!" She nodded towards the steersman and, without further prompting, the boat lurched forward. The feeling was hard to describe. You know that dropping feeling in your stomach when you're on a roller coaster and it goes into free fall? The moment when you think, "Holy crow, I might die", and it causes a high of adrenaline and mixed with nausea? It was kind of like that, except were stationary and the feeling didn't go away.

The boat moved with astounding speed. The lights of the city blurred, then gave way to a thick fog. Strange sounds echoed in the dark: slithering and hissing, distant screams, voices whispering in languages I didn't understand. The nausea increased in intensity. The sounds got louder, until I was about to scream myself. It felt like the entire world was spinning around me, on the verge of collapse.

Then suddenly the boat slowed. The noises stopped, and the fog dissipated. City lights came back, brighter than before. Above us loomed a bridge, much taller than any bridge in London. My stomach did a slow roll. To my left, I saw a familiar skyline.

"That's impossible," I muttered. "That's New York. Look! That's the Cryselter Building… And there's the Empire State Building."

Samuel looked as green as I felt. He was still cradling Cupcake, who seemed to be the only one, besides Amos, who was unaffected by the travel. He lay content in Samuel's arms, and was even purring slightly.

"It can't be," Samuel argued. "We've barely traveled five minutes."

And yet there we were, sailing up the East River, right under the Williamsburg Bridge. We glided to a stop next to a small dock on the Brooklyn side of the river. In front of us was an industrial yard filled with piles of scrap metal and old construction equipment. In the center of it all, right at the water's edge, rose a huge factory warehouse heavily painted with graffiti, the windows boarded up.

"That is not a mansion," Samuel said. His powers of perception were impeccable.

"Look again." Amos pointed to the top of the building. I sent a cursory glance towards the building again, not expecting to see any change, and was shocked.

"How...how did you..." My voice failed me. I wasn't sure why I hadn't seen it before, but now it was obvious: a five-story mansion adorned the roof of the warehouse, gleaming in the light like a star on a Christmas tree. It should have been impossible to miss, but somehow, neither of us had seen it before.

"You couldn't build a mansion up there!" I exclaimed, mouth agape. "I mean, logistics aside, no way zoning codes would allow for it. That thing can't be stable.

"Long story, which will all be explained to you in time" Amos said. "But we needed a private location, and as you've seen, I can be very… persuasive."

"It's on the east shore," Samuel pointed out. I assumed he figured it out by the fact that the sun was setting opposite us, but I couldn't think of the significance of it. I'll never understand why men use cardinal directions all the time. Seriously. Ask a guy for directions, and 9 times out of 10 he'll say to "Head east" or "South-west". Ask most girls, they'll say "Go that way till you see the funny shaped building."

"You said something about that in London—my grandparents living on the east shore." he continued, and I nodded in recognition.

Amos smiled, her eyes glowing with approval. "Yes. Very good, Samuel. In ancient times, the east bank of the Nile was always the side of the living, the side where the sun rises. The dead were buried west of the river. It was considered bad luck, even dangerous, to live there. The tradition is still strong among...our people."

"Our people?" I asked, mentally running through our heritage, but Samuel muscled in with another question.

"So you can't live in Manhattan?" he asked. Amos's brow furrowed as she looked across at the Empire State Building. Her mouth tightened, but I couldn't tell whether it was from fear or annoyance.

"Manhattan has other problems. Other gods. It's best we stay separate."

"Other what?!" Samuel demanded. In my travels with Mom, I had seen many different religions. But it was rare for someone who lived in New York to practice paganism or any other religion with multiple deities. America was pretty good at silencing people who didn't conform to the 'standard' way of living.

Amos ignored him and walked past us to the steersman. She plucked off the man's hat and coat—revealing nothing but air underneath. The steersman simply wasn't there. Amos put on her fedora, draped her coat over her arm, then waved toward a metal staircase that wound all the way up the side of the warehouse to the mansion on the roof.

"All ashore," she said. "And welcome to the Twenty-first Nome."

"Gnome?" I asked, as we followed him up the stairs. "Like those little runty guys people put in gardens?"

"Heavens, no," Amos said. "I hate gnomes. They smell horrible and have absolutely no manners. The more that get turned to stone, the better."

"But you said—"

"Nome, n-o-m-e. As in a district, a region. The term is from ancient times, when Egypt was divided into forty-two provinces. Today, the system is a little different. We've gone global. The world is divided into three hundred and sixty nomes. Egypt, of course, is the First. Greater New York is the Twenty-first."

Samuel glanced at me and twirled her finger around her temple.

"No, Samuel," Amos said without looking back. "I'm not crazy. There's just much you need to learn."

We reached the top of the stairs, both Samuel and I breathing a bit heavily. Looking up at the mansion, it was hard to understand what I was seeing. The house was at least fifty feet tall, built of enormous limestone blocks and steel-framed windows. There were hieroglyphs engraved around the windows, and the walls were lit up so the place looked like a cross between a modern museum and an ancient temple.

But the weirdest thing was, the entire building acted like those holographic pictures. If I looked straight at it, I could see every detail of the place. But if I so much as glanced away, the whole building seemed to disappear. I tried it several times just to be sure. If I looked for the mansion from the corner of my eye, it wasn't there. I had to force my eyes to refocus on it, and even that took a lot of willpower. It was almost as if it didn't want to be seen- but it was a building!

Amos stopped before the entrance, which was the size of a garage door—a dark heavy square of timber with no visible handle or lock.

"Carla, after you."

"Um, how do I—" There should have been no way to open the door. There were no hinges or cracks. Nothing but a blank wall with some framing.

"How do you think?" Great, another mystery. I was about to suggest we ram Amos's head against it and see if that worked. Then I looked at the door again, and I had the strangest feeling. I took a steadying breath and pushed outward with both hands, as if I were pushing open a large set of double doors. Suddenly, a large line split the center of the door, and both halves swung in. Samuel looked as stunned as I felt.

"How..." he muttered, making vague pushing gestures with his hands.

"I don't know," I admitted, a little embarrassed. "Motion sensor, maybe?"

"Interesting." Amos sounded a little troubled. It was as if she wanted me to fail the test. "Not the way I would've done it, but very good. Remarkably good."

"Thanks, I think."

Samuel tried to go inside first, but as soon as he stepped on the threshold, Cupcake wailed and almost clawed his way out of Samuel's arms. Samuel faltered, nearly dropping the cat and moved backwards.

"What the heck was all that, cat?"

"Oh, of course," Amos said. "My apologies, Cupcake. It slipped my mind." She put her hand on the cat's head and said, very formally, "I give you permission to enter."

"The cat needs permission?" I asked.

"Special circumstances," Amos said, which wasn't much of an explanation, but she walked inside as if it was. We followed, and this time Cupcake stayed quiet.

"Oh my god..." Samuel's jaw dropped. He craned his neck to look at the ceiling, his gun dangerously close to falling out of his mouth.

"Indeed," Amos said. "This is the Great Room."

The name definitely suited the room. The cedar-beamed ceiling was four stories high, held up by carved stone pillars engraved with hieroglyphs. An odd assortment of modern and ancient musical instruments and Ancient Egyptian weapons decorated the walls. Three levels of balconies ringed the room, with rows of doors all looking out on the main area. The fireplace was big enough to park a car in, with a giant flat screen TV looming above the mantel and massive leather sofas on either side.

On the floor was a snakeskin rug. It was surprisingly realistic for the fake it had to be at forty feet long and fifteen feet wide—bigger than any snake. Outside, through glass walls, I could see the terrace that wrapped around the house. It had a swimming pool, a dining area, and a blazing fire pit. And at the far end of the Great Room was a set of double doors marked with the Eye of Horus, and chained with half a dozen padlocks. I wondered what could possibly be behind them to warrant such security.

But the real showstopper was the statue in the center of the Great Room. It was thirty feet tall, made of black marble. I could tell it was of an Egyptian goddess because the figure had a human body and an animal's head—like a stork or a crane, with a long neck and a really long beak. The goddess was dressed in typical ancient egyptian attire, with long flowing robes and a heavy collar, her arms adorned with many bracelets. She held a scribe's stylus in one hand, and an open scroll in the other, as if she had just written the hieroglyphs inscribed there: an ankh—the Egyptian looped cross—with a rectangle traced around its top.

"That's it!" Samuel exclaimed. "Per Ankh."

I stared at him in disbelief. I could believe Samuel would do a lot of crazy things, but I had never expected studying ancient languages to be one of them.

"All right, I'll bite. How you can read that?" I barely recognized the ankh and I had spent years with Mom.

"I don't know," he said. "But it's obvious, isn't it? The top one is shaped like the floor plan of a house."

"How did you get that? It's just a box, minus one side." The thing was, he was right. I looked harder at it and recognized the symbol, and it was supposed to be a simplified picture of a house with a doorway. But that wouldn't be obvious to most people, especially people named Samuel. Yet he looked absolutely positive.

"It's a house," he insisted. "And the bottom picture is the ankh, the symbol for life. Per Ankh—the House of Life."

"Very good, Samuel." Amos looked impressed. "And this is a statue of the only god still allowed in the House of Life—at least, normally. Do you recognize her, Carter?"

Just then it clicked: the bird was an ibis, an Egyptian river bird. "Thoth," I said. "The god of knowledge. She invented writing. But isn't Toth usually like, you know, a guy?"

"Indeed," Amos said. "But the gods are not stationary beings. They're more ideas. And besides, gender has never been concrete, even in ancient societies. Indeed, the gods were known to shift forms often, even bordering the gap between nature and humanity."

"Is that why they have animal heads?" Samuel asked. "They look so silly."

"They don't normally appear that way- half and half," Amos said. "Not in real life anyway."

"Real life?" I asked. "Come on. You sound like you've met them in person."

Amos's expression hardening didn't reassure me. She looked as if she were remembering something unpleasant.

"The gods could appear in many forms—usually fully human or fully animal, but occasionally as a hybrid form like this. They are primal forces, you understand. They are depicted with animal heads to show that they exist in two different worlds at once. Do you understand?"

"Not even a little," Samuel said.

"Mmm." Amos sighed, but didn't sound surprised. "Yes, we have much training to do. At any rate, the god before you, Thoth, founded the House of Life, for which this mansion is the regional headquarters. Or at least...it used to be. I'm the only member left in the Twenty-first Nome. Or I was, until you two came along."

"Hang on." I had so many questions I could hardly think where to start. "What is the House of Life? Why is Thoth the only god allowed here? What do you mean 'until we came along'? Is this some initiation? And why are you—"

"Carla, breath. I understand how you feel." Amos smiled sympathetically. "But these things are better discussed in daylight. You need to get some sleep, and I don't want you to have nightmares."

"You think I can sleep?"

"Mrow." Cupcake stretched in Samuel's arms and let loose a huge yawn. At least someone was unaffected by all the weirdness of today. Amos clapped her hands.

"Khufu!" I almost wished her 'bless you' at what sounded like a sneeze, because Khufu is a weird name, but then a little dude about three feet tall with gold fur and a purple shirt came clambering down the stairs. It took me a second to realize it was a baboon wearing an L.A. Lakers jersey. The baboon did a flip and landed in front of us. She showed off her fangs and made a sound that was half roar, half belch. Her breath smelled like nacho-flavored Doritos. All I could think to say was, "The Lakers are my home team!"

The baboon slapped her head with both hands and belched again. "Oh, Khufu likes you," Amos said. "You'll get along famously."

"Right." Samuel looked dazed. "The monkey likes you. Glad to hear it." Cupcake purred in Samuel's arms, his sleep undeterred by the large baboon in front of him.

"Agh!" Khufu grunted at me. Amos chuckled. "She wants to go one-on-one with you, Carter. A match to, ah, see your game."

I shifted from foot to foot. Athletics had never been my strong suit, no matter how much I appreciated the sport.

"Um, yeah. Sure. Maybe tomorrow. But how can you understand—"

"Carla, I'm afraid you'll have a lot to get used to," Amos said. "But if you're going to survive and save your mother, you have to get some rest."

"Sorry," Samuel said, "did you say 'survive and save our mother'? Could you expand on that? Specifically on the 'survive' part!"

"Tomorrow," Amos promised. "We'll begin your orientation in the morning. Khufu, show them to their rooms, please."

"Agh-uhh!" the baboon grunted. She turned and waddled up the stairs. Unfortunately, the Lakers jersey only managed to cover part of her multicolored rear. We were about to follow when Amos called out, "Carla, the workbag, please. It's best if I lock it in the library."

I hesitated. I'd almost forgotten the bag on my shoulder, but it was all I had left of my mother. I didn't even have our luggage, which held my wallet with our pictures in it. Honestly, I'd been surprised that the police hadn't taken the workbag too, but none of them had seemed to notice it.

"You'll get it back," Amos promised, sensing my hesitation. "When the time is right."

She had asked nicely enough, but something in her eyes told me that I really didn't have a choice. They were sharp and hardened, despite the smile on her face. I handed over the bag, and Amos took it gingerly, as if it were full of explosives.

"See you in the morning." She turned and strode toward the chained-up doors. They unlatched themselves and opened just enough for Amos to slip through without showing us anything on the other side. Then the chains locked again behind her. I looked at Samuel, unsure what to do. Wait for the crazy woman to come back out of the locked room or follow her baboon butler to who knows where.

Staying by ourselves in the Great Room with the creepy statue of Thoth didn't seem like much fun, so we followed Khufu up the stairs. She led us to adjoining rooms on the third floor, pushing me towards one and Samuel towards the other. We shared one last look before, he turned and entered his room. I opened my door, and my mouth dropped open at the scene in front of me.

I was expecting a dusty room with a bed and dresser, but it was way cooler than any place I'd ever stayed before.

There was a full kitchenette, and I opened the fridge to see all favorite snacks: ginger ale—[No, Samuel. It's not an old person's soda! Be quiet!]—Twix, and Skittles. It seemed impossible. How did Amos know what I liked? The more I explored the more I was stunned. The TV, computer, and stereo system were totally high-tech. The bathroom was stocked with my regular brand of toothpaste, deodorant, everything. The whole room was tailored to my life.

The king-size bed was awesome, too, though the pillow was a little strange. Instead of a cloth pillow, it was an ivory headrest like I'd seen in Egyptian tombs. It was decorated with lions and (of course) more hieroglyphs. There was a walk- in closet that could hold more clothes than I had ever owned, but also had several well stocked book shelves. The room even had a deck that looked out on New York Harbor, with views of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty in the distance. I tried to do out and check out the view, but the sliding glass doors were locked shut somehow. That was my first indication that something was wrong.

I turned to look for Khufu, but she was gone. The door to my room was shut. I tried to open it, but it was locked. A muffled voice came from the next room.

"Carla?"

"Samuel."

I tried the door to his adjoining room, but it was locked too.

"We're prisoners," he said. "Do you think Amos...I mean, can we trust her? Is she locking us up for our safety or..." After all I'd seen today, I didn't trust anything, but I could hear the fear in Samuel's voice that he was trying to cover. It triggered an unfamiliar feeling in me, like I needed to reassure him. The idea seemed ridiculous. Samuel had always seemed so much braver than me—doing what he wanted, never caring about the consequences. I was the one who was nervous about checking out at a cash register. But right now, I felt like I needed to play a role I hadn't played in a long, long time: big sister.

"It'll all be okay." I tried to sound confident. "Look, if Amos wanted to hurt us, she could've done it by now. Try to get some sleep."

"Carla?" his voice echoed out again after several seconds.

"Yeah?"

"It was magic, wasn't it? What happened to Mom at the museum. Amos's boat. This house. All of it's magic."

"I think so." It felt insane to say it out loud, but there was no other explanation. Even science could only do so much. I could hear him sigh with a mix of exhaustion and relief.

"Good. At least I'm not going mad."

"That or we both are." I added, and heard a soft chuckle. "Don't let the bedbugs bite"

I realized I hadn't said that to Samuel since we had lived together in Los Angeles, when Dad was still alive.

"I miss Mum," he said. "I hardly ever saw her, I know, but...I miss her." My eyes got a little teary, but I took a deep breath. I was not going to go all weak. Sam needed me. Mom needed us. "We'll find him," I told him. "Sweet dreams."

I listened, but the only thing I heard was Cupcake meowing and scampering around, exploring his new space. At least he didn't seem unhappy. I got ready for bed and crawled in. The covers were comfortable and warm, but the pillow was just too weird. It gave me neck cramps, so I put it on the floor and went to sleep without it. That was my first big mistake.

 **Damn! Long as heck chapter! Again, let me know what you guys think about keeping the book chapters all together. Again, hoping I didn't offend anyone with the idea that the gods shift shape into alternate genders. Just going off of ideas from other mythologies to make things make sense.**

 **Also, I am all registered for college. Haven't even started classes and I'm already $4,000 in debt. YAY! Yay…**

 **Hope you guys enjoy and please review with any comments, constructive criticism, or requests. I can and will write for other fandoms too. I was thinking about writing some things for the Supernatural fandom. Let me know!**

 **Thanks for everything,**

 **Cat**


	12. Chapter 6 (Part 1)

**Sorry for anyone who saw the really weird way this uploaded. I have no idea why it did that! Sorry!**

 **A VERY SPECIAL THANKS GOES OUT TO** merendinoemiliano **FOR LETTING ME KNOW RIGHT AWAY HOW BADLY I MESSED UP THE FORMATTING! THANK YOU!**

Chapter 6

Carla

How to begin to describe my dream? Not a nightmare. Nightmares were terrifying, but you usually knew they would never happen. No, it was much more real and frightening.

I felt my body go weightless on my bed, a feeling so much different than just falling asleep. Suddenly, I saw the ceiling begin to grow closer, as I drifted up. Shaking my head at the impossibility, I turned, and startled as I saw my own sleeping form below.

'Great. I'm dead,' I thought. But that wasn't it, either. As I looked down at myself, I didn't look like a ghost. From my waist down, I was still clad in the briefs I had worn to bed. But my arms were replaced with shimmering, golden wings. I was a hybrid of myself and some kind of bird. [No, Samuel, not a chicken. More like an eagle or a hawk. Because I read a book on birds...Will you let me tell the story, please?!]

Looking around the room, I knew I wasn't dreaming, because I don't dream in color. I certainly don't dream in all five senses. The room smelled faintly of the jasmine candle which had been left beside my bed. I could hear the carbonation bubbles pinging in the can of ginger ale I'd opened on my nightstand. A cold wind ruffled through my feathers, and I realized the windows were open.

Leavin the safety of the room seemed ill advised, especially after what happened today, but a strong current pulled me out of the room like a leaf in a storm. The lights of the mansion faded below me. The skyline of New York blurred and disappeared. I shot through the mist and darkness, strange voices whispering all around me. My stomach tingled as it had earlier that night on Amos's barge. Then the mist cleared, and I was in a completely foreign place.

I floated above a mountain, barren except for a few scattered trees. Far below, a grid of city lights stretched across the valley floor. Definitely not New York. It was nighttime, but I could tell I was in the desert. The dry wind made the skin on my face was like paper. And I know that doesn't make sense, but my face felt like my normal face, as if that part of me hadn't transformed into a bird. [Fine, Samuel. Call me the Carla -headed chicken. Happy?]

Below me on a ridge stood two figures. Despite my irradiance, they didn't seem to notice me. I looked down and I realized I wasn't glowing anymore. In fact I was translucent, barely showing up in the dark shadows.. I couldn't make out the two figures clearly, but what I could see was enough to recognize that they weren't human.

Staring harder, I could see that one was short, squat, and hairless, with slimy skin that glistened in the starlight—like an amphibian after shedding its skin. The other was scarecrow like; tall and skinny, with rooster claws instead of feet. I couldn't see his face very well, but it looked red and moist and...well, let's just say I was glad I couldn't see it better.

"Where is she?" the toad-looking one croaked nervously.

"Hasn't decided on a permanent host yet," the rooster-footed guy chided. "Until then, she can only appear for a short time."

"You're sure this is the place?"

"Yes, fool! She'll be here as soon—" A fiery form appeared on the ridge. The two creatures fell to their 'knees', groveling in the dirt, and I prayed like crazy that I really was invisible.

"My lord! I mean, my Lady!... Uh, Sire?" the toad fumbled. Even in the dark, the newcomer was hard to see—just the silhouette of a woman outlined in flames.

"You may call me 'My Lady'. Master would be even better. What do they call this place?" the woman asked. And as soon as she spoke, I knew for sure she was the one who'd attacked my Mom at the British Museum. All the fear I'd felt at the museum came rushing back, paralyzing me. I remembered trying to pick up that stupid rock to throw, but I hadn't been able to do even that. I'd completely failed my Mom in the face of one woman.

"My Lady," Rooster Foot said. "The mountain is called Camelback. The city is called Phoenix."

The fiery woman laughed, but it was devoid of any warmth, coming out as more of an evil cackle. "Phoenix. How appropriate! From the ashes of this pathetic world, I shall be reborn. And the desert so much like home. All it needs now is to be scoured of life. The desert should be a sterile place, don't you think?"

"Oh yes, my Lady," the toad agreed fervently. "But what of the other four? Will they not try to stop you?"

"One is already entombed," the fiery man said. "The second is weak. They will be easily manipulated, and if not, eliminated. That leaves only two. Admittedly more irksome, but they will be dealt with soon enough."

"Er...how?" the toad asked, glancing at Rooster Foot with apprehension. Whomever those other two were, they must have scared the creatures more than the fiery woman glowed brighter.

"You are an inquisitive little tadpole, aren't you? Perhaps, too inquisitive" She pointed at the toad and the poor creature's skin began to steam.

"No!" the toadie begged. "No-o-o-o!" I could hardly watch. I don't want to describe it. But if you've heard what happens when cruel kids pour salt on snails, you'll have a pretty good idea of what happened to the toadie. Soon there was nothing left but a smoldering pile of flesh. Rooster Foot took a nervous step back. I couldn't blame him.

"We will build my temple here," the woman said, wiping off her hands. "This mountain shall serve as my place of worship. When it is complete, I will summon the greatest storm ever known. I will cleanse everything. Everything."

"Yes, my Lady," Rooster Foot agreed quickly. "And, ah, if I may be so bold as to suggest, my Lady, to increase your already formidable power..." The creature bowed and scraped and moved forward, as if he wanted to whisper in the woman's ear. Just when I thought Rooster Foot was going to become fried chicken for sure, he said something to the woman that I couldn't make out, and her face twisted into a maniacal grin as her flames burned brighter.

"Excellent! If you can do this, you will be rewarded. But if your hubris precedes you..."

"I understand, my Lady."

"Go then," the woman said. "Unleash our forces. Start with the longnecks. That should soften them up. Collect the younglings and bring them to me. I want them alive, before they have time to learn their powers. Do not fail me."

"Never, my Lady."

"Phoenix," the fiery woman mused "How fitting." She swept her hand across the horizon, as if imagining leveling the city. "Soon I will rise from your ashes. It'll be such a happy birthday, to me."

 **Alright, so hopefully it uploads correctly this time! Was gonna say, sorry for the short chapter, I'm on vacation trying to relax before college and I'm sharing a room with two other people so not a lot of privacy. Will update soon, and maybe start a new series of oneshots. Let me know any ideas for this or other fandoms. Constructive critisism and reviews are always welcome.**

 **THANK YOU AGAIN** merendinoemiliano **!**

 **-Cat**


	13. Chapter 6 (Part 2)

**Hey guys! Just got home so now getting back into the real world. Yay... at least now I have better wifi and my own space (kinda). Good luck to all those starting (or who have * _cringe*_ already started). Might be uploading a one shot that is school themed for ya'll, but you know me. No promises. Might get distracted by my cat.**

 **Comments:**

merendinoemiliano **: Once again, a very special thanks goes out to you. I would never have continued this without your support and, as evidenced by the last chapter upload I tried to do, would have made even more stupid mistakes. Thank you so much! Sorry the last chapter was kinda crappy. I was on vacation and wanted to get something up. But I know that I shouldn't post something crappy just for an upload. Sorry! I hope this one is better. i added a lot of additional comments and backstory for Carla. I got your PM btw, but when I tried to respond it said your inbox is full... I love the idea! I really like the characters of Artemis and Annabeth, but I'll have to do some research on betrayal fics, because I have never read one XD. Not my cup of tea. Thank you so much for the request, and I will work on getting it up ASAP.**

Carla

My eyes flew open and my heart pounded against my chest as I sat up in bed. Groping around my arms and legs, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I was corporeal this time. I didn't know if you could die in a dream, but it sure felt like I had come close.

My skin felt hot and uncomfortable, like a bad sunburn, as if the fiery woman had actually began to roast me. I shifted painfully and heard a soft hiss in argument. Startled, I looked down and realized that there was a cat curled up on my lap.

Cupcake glared at me, before kneeding my leg and settling back down.

"How did you get in?" I muttered, stroking his back. "Why aren't you with Samuel?"

I looked around at the room and for a second I wasn't sure where I was. Some hotel in another city? Doubtful. We never stayed anyplace this nice. One time I had gotten fed up with barely livable spaces, and offered to pick up odd jobs for more money. Mom denied me, muttering something about 'too many people'. Something that never made sense to me at the time.

I almost called for my Mom.. then the events of the past 24 hours came flashing back to me.. The museum. The sarcophagus. Mom was gone. It all crashed down on me so hard I could barely breathe. My chest constricted painfully and my vision swam.

'Stop', I told myself. 'You don't have time to panic. Your mother is gone, so you must do everything you can to get her back. Breaking down won't help.'

It must have been a projection of my Mom or someone else, but the voice in my head almost sounded like a different person—older, stronger, if not slightly colder. Either it was a good sign, or I was going crazy. Or maybe it was all the result of drinking Ginger Ale before bed.

'Remember the dream', the voice urged. 'She's after you and Samuel. You must be ready.'

I shivered and pulled the blankets tighter around me. I wanted desperately to believe it was all a bad dream, but I knew better. My dreams didn't usually have color, much less leave behind the feeling that the fiery woman had. The last day was proof enough that crazier things could happen. For goodness sake, I had cracked open a wall without touching it. Somehow, I'd actually left my body while I slept, and been to Phoenix—thousands of miles away.

The fiery woman was there and was plotting something catastrophic. I hadn't understood much of what she'd said, but she'd talked about sending forces to capture the younglings. Gee, wonder who they could be? If it wasn't a sign of my imminent death, I would have laughed at the Star Wars-like terms being used to describe Samuel and I.

Cupcake jumped off the bed and sniffed at the ivory headrest, looking between me and the floor before tilting his head.

"You can have it," I told him. "It's uncomfortable to sleep on." He nipped at my toe and stared at me accusingly.

"Mrow."

"Whatever, cat."

I got up and opened the third door in my room, revealing a decently sized bathroom. I looked through the cabinets and found my usual brand of soap in a new package. I stepped into the shower, and reveled a bit in the hot water and decent water pressure. Both were rarities to me.

The towels were white and fluffy, but a look in the closet provided clothes much different than what I was used to—baggy drawstring pants and loose shirts, all plain white linen, and robes for cold weather. I recognized the garbs as something the fellahin, or the peasants in Egypt, wear. The pajama-like attire wasn't exactly my style, but my clothes from yesterday seemed to have disappeared. Forced to change or walk out in a towel, I started dressing in the white clothes, cringing internally at the strangeness.

Samuel likes to tell me that I don't have a sense of style. He complains that I dress like an old librarian— blouse, slacks or long shirt, and flats. No jewelry (except for my amulet of course), and may all the gods help me if I wore makeup. Maybe it was true. I often wore my hair up and out of my face in order to read better, which did little to change that impression.

But there was a reason for it. From the day I was born, my mother instilled in me the need to always dress my best. Her commitment to the cause had only gotten stronger after Dad died and we were separated from Samuel. For this reason, some people thought that she was doing it to impress other guys and get another husband. But Mom never got over Dad, so I knew that wasn't true.

I remember the first time she explained it to me. I was ten. We were desperately trying to catch a flight out a airport in Athens, and it was more than 112 degrees outside. My feat ached from running in flats and my clothes felt constricting. I was complaining that I wanted to wear shorts and a T-shirt. Why couldn't I be comfortable? We weren't going anywhere important that day—just traveling.

My mother slowed down and smoothed the pieces of hair hanging in my face back. "Carla, you're getting older now, and becoming less of a child and more of a young lady. You're an African American and you will be a woman. People will judge you more harshly, even if you do no wrong. So you must always look respectable and behave just as much."

"That isn't fair!" I insisted.

"Fairness does not mean everyone gets the same," Mom explained. "Fairness means everyone gets what they need. And the only way to get what you need is to make it happen yourself. You cannot rely on someone else to do something for you, not even me. Do you understand?"

I admitted that I didn't, and she sighed before starting to walk again.

But despite my lack of understanding, I still I did all I could to follow her instructions. So, from that point on, I did whatever she asked—like caring about Egypt, and basketball, and music. Like traveling with only one suitcase. I dressed the way Mom wanted me to because Mom was almost always right. In fact, I'd never known her to be wrong...until the night at the British Museum.

I shook my head and finished putting on the linen clothes. The slipper shoes were comfortable, but based on the way I was sliding around the floor, I doubted they'd be much good to run in. I looked around an realized the door to Samuel's room was ajar. i gave a knock on the frame before looking in, but he wasn't there. Thankfully, after turning the handle, I realized my bedroom door wasn't locked anymore either.

Cupcake joined me as I attempted to retrace my steps from last night. We passed almost a hundred unoccupied bedrooms on the way. Just the sleeping portion of the mansion was the size of a small hotel, but despite the soft colors and homey accents made it feel empty and sad. I got the distinct impression that, besides Amos, not a single soul had entered this building in years. I had never seen a building look so cleaned and yet so abandoned.

When we reached the Great Room, I saw Khufu the baboon on the sofa with a basketball between her legs and a piece of oddly shaped meat in her hands. Both it and her mouth was covered in pink feathers. ESPN was on the television, the highlights from the games the night before playing on a loop.

"Hey," I said, though I felt a little weird talking to her, like a crazy old cat lady. "Lakers win?"

Khufu looked at me and patted her basketball like she wanted a game. "Agh, agh." She grunted, offering the ball to me. She had a pink feather hanging from her mouth, coated in saliva and... [Nope. Just the thought of it is making my stomach roll. Moving on.]

"Um, yeah," I said, skirting awkwardly around her. "We'll play later, okay?"

I could see Samuel and Amos out on the terrace, eating breakfast by the pool. December in New York should've made it impossible to eat out there without your juice freezing. But there was a fire pit blazing, and neither Amos nor Samuel looked cold, chatting amicably.

I started to head their way, then hesitated in front of the statue of Thoth. In the soft daylight, the bird-headed goddess seemed less intimidating, almost caring. Still, I could swear those beady eyes were watching me, almost judging my actions. What had the woman said last night? Something along the lines of getting to us before our powers developed.

It sounded ridiculous, but for a moment I felt a surge of strength- the same kind of feeling I got last night when I created a door. My blood tingled under my skin like I had drank an entire pot of coffee mixed with some energy drinks. My head swam with imagined power. I felt like I could lift anything, even this two ton statue. In a kind of trance, I gave into the temptation and stepped forward. My hand was just starting to raise when Cupcake nipped at my ankles through my thin pants.

As soon as my concentration wavered, the feeling dissolved. My arms felt like noodles and I shook them out. "You're right," I told the cat, shaking my head as well. "Stupid idea." How had I ever thought that would work? I've had trouble carrying some of my Mother's thicker books, not that they were particularly light either. [Shut up, Sam! No I am not a wimp!]

Besides, the smell of breakfast wafted in though a window. French toast, bacon, hot chocolate— my stomach grumbled and I couldn't blame Muffin for being in a hurry. I took one last look back at the statues before turning and following the cat out.

 **Yay! Another (partial) chapter! Next one I am going to work on is another Sanubis oneshot and a *gasp* Supernatural oneshot. Both are gonna be based on songs, because I've spend over 9 hours in the car listening to the radio and thought of cool ideas to go with some. Please let me know if you have any ideas about how to improve this fic, or requests for other ones!**

 **Good luck going back to school!**

 **Cat**


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